


Evil Trees, Hot Guys in Leather Jackets, and Awkward Situations: A Survival Guide by Stiles Stilinski

by Vengeful_Authoress



Series: Badly Kept Secrets and Convoluted Hunts: A Saga by the Beacon Hills Pack [1]
Category: Supernatural, Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alpha Derek, Alpha Scott, BAMF Stiles, Bisexual Stiles Stilinski, Brood-Offs between Derek and Cas, Crack shot Stiles, Destiel - Freeform, Dork Dean, Drag Races, F/F, F/M, Full Power Cas, Jealous Derek, M/M, Multi, Openly Bisexual Dean, Polyamorous Scott/Allison/Issac, Secrets, Stiles has a crush on Dean, Superwolf, creepy Peter Hale, everyone has secrets, flirtatious dean, sterek, suspicious derek
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-18
Updated: 2018-01-11
Packaged: 2018-08-09 15:28:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 18
Words: 95,587
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7807192
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vengeful_Authoress/pseuds/Vengeful_Authoress
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Away at college for his first year, Stiles befriends the Winchester brothers who are in town on a job. Stiles convinces them to come to Beacon Hills for the summer, eager to introduce them to his Pack friends. Once again, dark supernatural happenings come to town, and the Winchesters and the Pack struggle to investigate while keeping their true identities secret from the other group.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Halloween in April

**Author's Note:**

> Much love and thanks go out to my love, Onyx_Aurora for brainstorming with me! Many of the ideas in this story are her's. She also came up with the title, because I am kind of crap at titles. This is going to be a monster fic, probably, so if you like that and don't mind slow updates, stick around!

Evil Trees,  
Hot Guys in Leather Jackets,  
and Awkward Situations:  
A Survival Guide by Stiles Stilinski

Chapter 1 

Halloween in April 

Stiles slams his textbook shut and groans, stuffing a hand through his shock of dark brown hair. Names and dates swirl past his eyes at a dizzying speed. He still has over a month until finals start, but his Middle Ages final is a year-long, cumulative test, and on top of that, he has a huge paper for his Greek and Roman Culture class, and a math and English final. Last semester, Lydia spent a week berating him for cramming all his studying into two days. He’s not going to give her that satisfaction again.

“Studying again?” Stiles’ friend, Jacob, drops into the seat across the table from him. His curly, blonde hair is damp from the drizzling rain that’s been coming down all day, and his hazel eyes flash brightly as he brushes water off his coat.

Even though they’re both freshmen, Jacob is a year older than him. Stiles graduated a year early from Beacon Hills High School, desperate to get out of that town after all the darkness and the blood that’d happened there. He’d had to leave Scott, Derek, and the others behind, but they’d understood and supported his decision.

Stiles shrugs sheepishly, dragging himself back to the present.

Jacob rolls his eyes. “You’re such a nerd. You know finals aren’t for weeks, right?”

“Yeah, but this history test is going to be a bitch.”

“If you don’t have some fun soon, you’re going to go straight-up crazy,” Jacob informs him as if he’s preaching the word of God, and Stiles doesn’t bother to tell him that he’s already halfway to crazy. “Come with me to the Alpha Delta Phi party tonight.”

Alpha Delta Phi is the biggest fraternity at the University of Chicago, and every year, they hold a wild, sprawling party that invariably ends up getting shut down by the cops. It has a different, wacky theme each year, and this time, according to the neon orange posters plastered all over campus, it’s ‘Halloween in April’.

Stiles checks the time on his phone, and his ears grow a little warm when he sees the photo he set as his lock screen. Last summer, he managed to snap a candid photo of Derek’s profile without the werewolf noticing. He’d caught Derek in one of his rare, unguarded moments. Half a smile creeps across his face, and his black stubble was thick that day, his hair messy and uncombed. He’s wearing one of his infamous, grey V-necks, and the swell of his muscles pushes at the fabric.

Stiles doesn’t quite know why he’s set the photo for his lock screen. He misses Derek. He misses the others, too, of course, but Derek is the only one who truly understands the darkness that he’s seen.

It’s nearly dinnertime, Stiles realizes with a start; he’s been studying for about four hours. That seems like more than enough for one day.

“Yeah, let’s do it,” he says to Jacob, flashing a smile. “Do you want to grab dinner first?”

“Sure.”

Stiles slides his books off the table and dumps them into his backpack as Jacob stands, the movement spraying a few droplets across the floor. They weave through the lines of tables and chairs towards the doors, and Jacob slings his arm around Stiles’ shoulders. He pokes Stiles in the ribs. “Tonight, my friend, we are going to get you laid.”

Stiles shoves Jacob away, rolling his eyes. “Dude, shut up. I don’t need your help to get laid. And besides, I’m not interested in hooking up with some random chick I met at a party.”

“How about some random dude, then?” Jacob asks, waggling his eyebrows.

Stiles glares at him good-naturedly. “No.”

“Oh, I see.” Jacob nods knowingly. “Because of that hunk of a man you set as your lock screen, right?”

“Shut up or I will end you,” Stiles threatens, trying to hide that he’s turning bright red.

“Whatever.” Jacob shoves one of the glass doors open, and they step out of the college library and into the rain. Stiles pulls up the hood of his black hoodie, tucking the end of one of the strings into the corner of his mouth.

They hurry across the wet, grey campus. No one travels alone anymore, not after the two murders that have happened over the past couple of weeks. One victim was found in an alley, behind a dumpster, and the other was found in his dorm room, lying on his bed. He lived four doors down from Stiles. Police haven’t released the details of the deaths yet. If he were back in Beacon Hills, Stiles would put his research hat on and get to work, but he done with that for the year.

By the time the reach the glass and brick dining hall, they’re both soaked through. Stiles holds the door open for Jacob and glances back out into the rain just before he ducks inside. Two tall men walk quickly down the street, heads bowed against the weather.

The dining hall is steamy and warm, and Stiles’ table is practically overflowing with people. He quickly forgets about studying as the bubble of conversation surrounds him.

“Are you going to the party tonight?” Sara asks him as she steals a fry off his plate. The rain has made her hair frizz out in a halo around her head, and her brown skin glows in the light. Stiles knows that Sara is a werewolf, but he hasn’t told her that he knows. He wants to stay away from all things supernatural while he’s at school. This college is his refuge, a place where the darkness can’t touch him.

“Yeah,” Stiles replies, face stuffed half-full of burger.

“Don’t worry, I’m making sure he changes,” Jacob interjects.

Stiles glances down at his clothes. He’s wearing a drab, green jacket over his black hoodie and a pair of blue jeans. That seems perfectly reasonable to him. “What’s wrong with these?”

Jacob smacks him on the arm. “It’s a Halloween party!”

Oh, right. This past October, Stiles found out that he actually likes Halloween. They never celebrated it in Beacon Hills; they already had to deal with the supernatural on a daily basis. But Stiles likes the chance to dress up as something he’s not and pretend like monsters and magic really are all just make believe.

After dinner, Stiles, Sara, and Jacob head back to their dorm. They all live in the same hall, separated by only a few doors. They go into Stiles’ room, locking the door behind them. Somehow, Stiles ended up with a single, and he keeps it pretty simple. Dark blue sheets on the bed, a couple piles of dirty clothes heaped on the floor and his rolling chair. There’s a picture of him and the Pack on his dresser, everyone grinning except for Derek who absolutely refuses to smile for photos.

Stiles tosses his backpack onto his bed. “So what should I go as?”

“Something sexy,” Jacob suggests instantly.

“Go as a sexy pirate,” Sara adds, latching onto the idea.

“You can borrow my striped pajama pants,” Jacob says, “and stuff the ends of them into your combat boots.”

“I have a little toy sword you can use,” Sara interrupts. “Then we’ll find you an eye patch and a bandana. You’re not allowed to wear a shirt, though.”

Stiles laughs. “Alright, I’ll be a sexy pirate. Now get out of here. I’ve got to grab a shower before we get ready to go.”

* * *

 

“Why did we leave the Impala at Bobby’s again?” Sam asks as another string of cold water runs under his collar and down his back.

“Because I don’t trust college students,” Dean reminds him. “I don’t want them trashing my baby.”

“Whatever,” Sam grumbles, stuffing his hands in his pockets.

They arrived in Chicago yesterday evening, having taken the MegaBus due to Dean’s paranoia. The two murders caught Sam’s eye as he was browsing police databases, searching for a new job. The reports say both bodies had been drained of blood, but the police don’t have any suspects yet. Dean and Sam know it’s a vampire.

Following a colorful tour guide map, Sam and Dean make their way over to the dorm building where the second victim died. It’s a little after noon on a Saturday, so Dean’s hoping most of the students will be at lunch, and they’ll be able to snoop around undetected.

They approach the key card activated door just as a girl comes out, popping an umbrella open. Sam catches the door before it can swing shut, and they slip inside, pounding up the stairs until they reach the third floor.

The hallway stretches out in front of them in a straight line, double rows of doors with brightly colored signs illuminated by the stark overhead lights. Sam shakes the water from his thick hair as they start forward.

“I think the room is at the end of the hall,” he says. He doesn’t know what they’ll find in there, but he hopes there’ll be something that will lead them to the vampire.

Halfway down the hall, a door swings open, and a boy with a shock of spikey, brown hair so dark it’s almost black steps out, tugging a backpack higher onto his shoulders. Dean and Sam turn away slightly as he passes, pretending to wring water from their hair.

They arrive at the door marked 315, a construction paper sign reading ‘Kevin’ in reds and oranges plastered across the center. Dean leans up against the wall to keep watch while Sam stoops to pick the lock, his tongue poked out slightly. The door clicks and swings open, revealing a slice of police tape across a black room.

Sam ducks under the tape, Dean close behind him, and they shut the door after them. Dean pulls a small flashlight from his pocket and shines it around the room. The sheets have been striped from the bed, but the police couldn’t quite get the blood out of the mattress, a brown-red stain up near the headboard.

Kevin was apparently into heavy metal bands, judging by the posters on his walls, and Dean nods approvingly at his taste. The police have gone through his dresser and his desk, but other than that, the room seems undisturbed.

“What are we looking for, exactly?” Sam wonders

“I don’t know. Anything that might lead us to the vamp.” Dean shrugs and starts to poke around on top of the desk.

Sam pulls out his own flashlight and crosses over to the bed. He checks underneath it and behind the headboard, but there’s nothing out of the ordinary. He sighs. The vamp could literally be anyone.

“Dude, check this out.”

When Sam turns around, Dean is holding up an orange paper with the words ‘Halloween in April’ written on it in a dripping font.

“What is it?”

“A frat party.” Dean grins wickedly, green eyes glinting.

“No, we’re not going to a college frat party.”

“Come on, man. It’s perfect.” Dean shakes the paper a little. “We can talk to a few people, try and find someone who might have seen something. Maybe the vamp will even show up.”

“You just want to hit on drunk college students.”

Dean’s grin widens, and he doesn’t try to deny it.

It’s not actually a bad idea. It’s better than going door to door down the hall, and a drunken party is the perfect hunting ground for a vampire. “Alright, fine,” he says.

“Yes,” Dean cheers quietly, pumping his fist a little.

“But I’m not dressing up,” Sam says firmly as he walks past Dean and ducks under the police tape again. They close up the room behind them, checking to make sure they weren’t seen.

“You have to, that’s the whole point,” Dean tells him and Sam rolls his eyes.

“What would we even go as? FBI agents?”

“Yeah, why not?” Dean actually kind of likes the idea. Everyone – man or woman – digs a guy in a suit.

They leave the dorm building the same way they came in, and Sam’s dismayed to see that it hasn’t stopped raining. His hair’s still wet from the last time they were outside.

Sam and Dean return to their cheap motel room which is only a few blocks from campus. Dean pulls the key with its gaudy, cat chain from his jacket pocket and unlocks the door with a grimace. Every time he goes into his room, the décor hurts his eyes.

The wallpaper literally has cats on it, like the kind you’d find in an old lady’s calendar. There are cat clocks on the tables and small writing desk, and there are cat shaped pillows on the twin beds covered in cat sheets. Dean has never seen so many cats in one place. They’re lucky there’s not a live one, too.

Dean sheds his wet jacket and drapes it across a 70s style chair with a plastic back as Sam makes a beeline for the bathroom, desperate to stop the water dripping down his neck. Dean peels off his wet shirt, too, and flops down on his bed with a sigh. Sam comes out of the bathroom, still toweling his hair.

He hears a quiet snore coming from Dean’s prone form, impressed as always by his brother’s unfailing ability to fall asleep anytime, anywhere, in less than a second. He boots up his computer and sits down at the small dining table, content to do research until Dean wakes up and demands to be fed.

 

With a snort, Dean comes back to life, lifting his head and blinking blearily at the clock. It’s nearly dinnertime, and he rubs at his eyes; that was one of the longest naps he’s ever taken. He’s finally remembering how to sleep after the disaster that was Lucifer and the Apocalypse.

He glances over at the other bed and sees that Sam is engrossed with his computer, a fan of papers spread out around him and a pencil in his mouth. His eyes flicker briefly in Dean’s direction. “Morning, Sleeping Beauty.”

Dean makes a sound between a groan and a muffled insult, and Sam smirks. He spits the pencil from his mouth and lets it drop, shutting his laptop and sliding it off his leg. “Rise and shine. Let’s go get dinner.”

“Will you bring me something?” Dean mumbles.

“No. Get up.”

Dean sighs heavily. He rolls slowly off the bed, catching himself on his legs just before he hits the ground. He and Sam stand at the same time and move towards the door, slinging still damp jackets on. Outside, the rain splashes across the ground, glowing in the neon sign coming off the motel’s sign.

Sam sighs. “We really need to get an umbrella.”

They end up eating at a small Mom and Pop diner just off of campus. “I bet we could scam some free food from the dining hall,” Dean says as they pass the well-lit hall on their way to the restaurant.

“You need an ID card to get in,” Sam reminds him. “And anyways, we’re already getting free food with our fake credit cards.”

“Oh, yeah.” Dean grins.

When Sam and Dean enter the small, clean diner, they stand on the welcome mat for a few seconds to shake the water from their hair and jackets. A woman in a flowing, blue blouse comes up to them and smiles, clip board in hand.

“Table for two?”

“Yeah,” Dean replies. “Thanks.”

He leaves a trail of water on the tile floor as he follows the hostess across the restaurant to a corner table. She sets two laminated menus down in front of them and leaves with a second smile.

As always, Dean gets a hamburger, cooked medium rare, with cheese and extra bacon. Sam orders a salad with walnuts and chicken and raises an eyebrow when Dean’s plate arrives, piled high and oozing juices. He learned long ago not to criticize Dean’s eating habits.

There’s also pie, and Dean has to have four slices, each a different kind. He also refuses to talk until he’s finished them all. Sam pays the bill with one of their fake credit cards, and they head back out into the rain, making their way back to the motel. Dean scowls as he shoves the door to their room open. “I swear I’m going to burn everything in here before we leave.”

“I’ll help you,” Sam promises.

They pass the next few hours trying to dig up any possible lead on the vampire’s identity. Dean thinks it has to be a university student, but that means thousands of possible suspects. They’re going to need to get up close and personal with the college kids, try to find that little nugget of information that ends up being key.

Eventually, eleven o’clock rolls around, and Sam and Dean unfold their black suits. Over the years, Dean has come to realize the value of the fancy, black suit. It helps him get into places he wouldn’t normally be able to get into. People listen to him when he wears the black suit. Also – and this is the best part – he looks really, really good when he wears it.

He tucks his fake badge into the suit’s pocket and rakes a comb through his blonde hair, spiking the front up. He slips that into a different pocket.

Sam comes out of the bathroom, smoothing the front of his jacket. He locks up after they leave, putting the garish key into his pocket, glad that it has finally stopped raining.

* * *

 

Stiles stares at himself in the mirror, impressed by the costume his friends managed to scrounge up in less than a half an hour. He’s wearing Jacob’s red and white striped pajamas pants, the ends tucked into his big, black combat boots. Sara tied one of her black scarves around his waist and gave him a toy cutlass that’s about the length of his forearm. She also randomly happened to have a plastic eye patch in her sock drawer, and a red bandana completes the ensemble.

He’s filled out over the past year, thanks to the free university gym, meaning he’s not embarrassed to go to a party shirtless. He’s also lucky he doesn’t have too many scars on the outside, so he doesn’t have to constantly explain them to people. He has a long one across the side of his ribs from a rogue werewolf, but he passes it off as a lacrosse accident, saying that a stick snapped during practice and slashed him up.

“Damn,” Sara whistles. “You look great.”

“Arr, shiver me timbers.” Stiles shakes his little cutlass and gives a fake snarl.

Sara very obviously checks him out and a slow smile spreads across her face. Stiles winks at her a little flirtatiously.

Jacob decides to dress up as a Jedi, and Sara straps a pair of purple wings to her back, complimenting them with a short, black dress and a lot of sparkly, purple make-up.

Just after eleven, they saunter out of the dorm, and Stiles is glad to see that it’s finally stopped raining. It would be no fun at all to go to a party soaking wet. Stiles is amazed that Sara can walk in her four inch heels on the slick sidewalks, but she motors along just fine beside them.

The frat house is a few streets over, maybe a ten-minute walk. There’s music and light blasting from the three-story building when they arrive at the end of the road, and people are streaming towards it from every direction like moths to a lantern.

Stiles shows his ID to the scantily clad Michael Phelps at the door, and the man draws a blue X on the back of his hand, marking him as an underclassman. Not that it matters. It’s easy enough to get drinks if you know how to smile.

Inside, the music is literally shaking the glass window panes, so loud that Stiles can’t make out the lyrics or even the melody. But the beat is strong, and he can already feel his body beginning to sway to it.

Jacob seizes both his and Sara’s hands and drags them towards the dance floor and the flashing strobe lights. They merge into the crowd seamlessly, and the music sweeps over Stiles. His hips begin to sway, and he lifts his arms into the air, head bobbing.

Several songs later, he shouts in Jacob’s ear that he’s going to get a drink and weaves his way out of the grind of dancers. He swaggers over to the bar and smiles at the bartender, a young woman dressed as a Ghostbuster. “Can I get a beer?” he asks her, shouting slightly.

She nods and spins around on what look like Heelys, gliding over to the wall of drinks. She wobbles a little as she goes, obviously already intoxicated.

As he waits, Stiles turns and surveys the crowd. A pair of men immediately catch his eye. They stand along the wall, dressed in black suits, and awkwardly not mingling with the rest of the party-goers. The one on the left is the tallest man Stiles has ever seen, taller even than Derek who is pretty much the biggest person Stiles knows. His brown hair is thick and long, and his shoulders are probably as wide as two Stiles standing side by side.

The other man is a few inches shorter, and he holds an entire try of cheese and crackers in one hand, stuffing them into his mouth with the other. Stiles eyes the way his shoulders taper down to his waist.

The men – because they seem just a little older than the rest of the college students – look around the room. The blonde man’s gaze lands on Stiles, and Stiles quickly drops his eyes. The Ghostbuster bartender hands him a plastic cup full of amber liquid, and he gives her a wink and a grin in thanks.

He raises the cup to his lips as he turns around and nearly splashes the whole thing over his face. The blonde man is suddenly right beside him, leaning on the bar and grinning just enough to be intriguing. He’s almost as pretty as Derek. He has a face like a prince out of a fairytale and apple green eyes, and his blonde hair is perked up into a perfect spike.

“Hello,” he says and pulls a leather wallet out of his pocket. He flips it open, revealing an FBI badge. “I’m Agent Hamill. Mind if I ask you a few questions?”

Laughing, Stiles reaches out and plucks the badge from the blonde man’s fingers. “That’s funny. If this were a real badge, there would be eight numbers on your ID code, not ten, and Hamill is the last name of the actor who played Luke Skywalker.”

The blonde man takes his badge back, tucking it inside his jacket and pretending he’s not slightly flustered. “Well, it _is_ a Halloween party.” He flashes Stiles a grin. “I’m Dean. And you are?”

Stiles takes the hand that’s offered to him, noting the rough callouses across his palm. “Stiles. I’m Stiles.”

The grin comes again, accompanied by a glint in his eye. “Nice to meet you. What year are you?”

“I’m a freshman. Well, technically, I graduated a year early from high school. So now I’m here. As a freshman.” Shit, there goes Stiles’ mouth again.

“That’s awesome.” The blonde man, Dean, seems quite impressed. “I graduated last year, but I’m hanging around to work on the paper for awhile.”

“Oh, wow. What section do you write for?”

“I float around.” The Ghostbuster just hands Dean a drink without him having to ask for it, and his answering smile makes her go pink. Stiles is pretty sure he turns the same color when Dean looks back at him. “I’m actually working on a story about the two murders right now.”

“What’s that like?” Stiles asks, though he’s pretty sure he already knows. It’s dark, and it’s horrifying.

Dean’s smile fades a little. “It’s not really what I expected it would be. It’s been pretty disturbing.”

“I bet.” Stiles sips at his drink, and the cheap beer is bitter on his tongue. “I actually live in the same hall as Kevin. He’s just a few doors down from me.”

“Really?” Dean doesn’t actually sound very surprised. “Did you know him well?”

Stiles shakes his head. “Only in passing. We’d say hi when we passed each other in the hall, but that was about it. Kevin was kind of a loner. He didn’t really interact much with anyone.”

Dean nods like that was what he’d expected. “Over the days leading up to his death, did you notice anyone new or strange hanging around his room?”

Stiles pauses to think. If he were investigating the death, he would be asking the same question. Has he seen anyone suspicious around? Back in Beacon Hills, he was always on the lookout for signs of the supernatural or the dangerous. Since he’s been at school, he’s stopped looking, wanting to be normal.

“Maybe.” His memory works to dig up the past few weeks. Suddenly, the wires connect, and the lights come on behind his eyes. “Actually, yeah. The night before he was killed, there was a man in a leather jacket hanging around the hall. I’d never seen him before. I didn’t think much of it, because I just assumed he was someone’s friend from another hall.”

“What did he look like?” Dean asks, failing to keep a note of eagerness from his voice.

Stiles closes his eyes and casts back through the threads that tie his past together. He follows a red string back to the night he saw the strange man. The scene swims into focus before his mind’s-eye.

“He was tall, maybe as tall as you. He wore battered jeans, a white tank top, and a leather jacket. His hair was long and black, slicked back with an obscene amount of gel.  His face was pale, his nose long, and he had dark eyes.”

When Stiles open his eyes, Dean is staring at him with obvious amazement. “That was incredible.”

Stiles turns hot. “I kind of have a photographic memory.”

“That’s awesome.” Dean flashes him another one of those killer smiles. “Have you seen him anywhere else?”

“What kind of story are you writing?” Stiles asks. He thinks that the school paper would want a profile on who Kevin and the other victim were, not a piece speculating who the killer might be.

Dean shrugs. “I’m just trying to get as much information as possible.” That grin comes again as if to wash Stiles’ suspicions away. “So have you? Seen him around?”

Stiles dives back into the threads, pulling them apart, following them through their twists and turns to their intersections and dead ends, but he comes up empty. He slides back into the present and tucks the threads away, shivering at the cold memories of his supernatural investigations that the threads dredged up.

He meets Dean’s eyes and shakes his head apologetically. “No, sorry. That’s the only time I’ve seen him.”

They both take drinks of their beer, practically in unison. Stiles is suddenly very aware that he’s not wearing a shirt and he’s talking to a very attractive man – even if that man isn’t Derek Hale. He’s not sure why he’s so self-conscious, but he quickly looks down at his cup as if there’s some answer there. There’s not, of course.

“What else can you tell me about Kevin?” Dean asks.

“Like I said, I didn’t really know him,” Stiles answers.

“Does he have any friends I could talk to?”

“Sorry,” Stiles says. “As far as I know, he kept to himself.”

“Well, thanks anyways.” Dean finishes his drink and sets the cup down on the bar. “It was great to meet you, Stiles.” He gives Stiles one more of his award-winning smiles and turns to leave. Before he takes two steps, though, he pauses and spins back around. “Hey, would you like to grab a drink with my brother and me sometime?”

Stiles stares at him, shocked. “Uh, yeah, uh. I’d love to. That sounds great. Yeah. Sure. Um, here, let me give you my number.”

Dean passes his phone over, and Stiles quickly adds his contact information. “Here you go,” he says as he gives Dean his phone back. “That’s me. Stiles Stilinski.”

“Fantastic.” Dean puts the device away. “I’ll shoot you a text in a few days.”

Once again, Stiles feels his face heat up. Dean is really good-looking and has a really cute smile which he is once again pointing in Stiles’ direction. “Great,” Stiles stutters. “Awesome. Looking forward to it. Thanks.” He doesn’t know what he’s thanking Dean for.

“I’ve got to go find my brother,” Dean says. “Got to make sure he’s not doing anything I wouldn’t do.” He lets out a laugh. “Actually, there’s nothing I wouldn’t do.”

Stiles watches as he saunters away, admiring the way his ass fills out his pants. He feels a little guilty, like he’s betraying Derek, but the view is too good to pass up.

“Who was that?”

Stiles jumps violently, nearly spilling the remainder of his drink down his bare chest. Jacob has appeared at his elbow, his mouth practically on Stiles’ ear.

“Shit, man, don’t do that!” Stiles exclaims. “You nearly gave me a heart attack!”

“Sorry. Not sorry. So who was that?”

“His name is Dean. He asked for my number.”

“Dude, nice!” Jacob slaps Stiles’ shoulders. In the time they’ve been apart, Jacob has obviously found several drinks. “Get it!”

They rejoin the dance floor, but Stiles can’t stop glancing around every five minutes to look for Dean, though the blonde man seems to have disappeared. A small rock of disappointment lodges itself in his stomach, but he pushes it aside to enjoy the party.

They dance for a long time, their bodies flowing with the pounding beats, and it’s well after two a.m. when they finally stumble out of the frat house. Jacob is completely inebriated, and Stiles and Sara have to support him all the way back to the dorm.

Stiles deposits Jacob in his bed before heading back to his own room. He slowly peels off his borrowed costume, dropping each piece to the floor. He falls into bed in his boxers, rejecting the blankets as he slips down into darkness.


	2. Parent-Teacher Night

Chapter Two

Parent-Teacher Night

“Mom, you really don’t have to do this,” Scott says for what seems like the thousandth time as he hurries after Melissa McCall. She strides purposefully up the stairs towards the front entrance of his high school, her heels clacking on the pavement. “Parents of seniors never go to Parent-Teacher Conferences.”

“Yes, but I want to meet your teachers,” she replies. “Don’t you have a new chemistry teacher?”

“I do, yeah. If you wanted to meet him, though, why didn’t you go to conferences first semester?”

“I was working, remember?”

Scott sighs. He’s just grateful he finally has good grades, so they won’t have to have _that_ talk. Sophomore year was a…rough year for him academically. Luckily, he’s been doing much better these past few years, well enough to get into Berkeley.

He follows Melissa through the glass doors. The foyer looks newly cleaned, the tiled floors gleaming, and the overhead lights are shining without their usual flickering. The administrators stand, smiling, all around the room, waiting to greet parents or point them in the right direction, and well-dressed adults hurry every which way, towing their children along behind them.

“Remind me again why I have to be here,” Scott says, stuffing his hands in his jacket pockets.

“Between your running around doing this, that, and the next thing with your Pack, and me pulling a bunch of double shifts at the hospital, we’ve barely seen each other all week,” Melissa explains. She turns down a hallway to the left, walking like she owns the place.

“So where to first?” she asks.

“I guess chemistry is closest,” Scott says with a shrug.

“That’s your new teacher?”

“Yeah. Dr. Crowley.”

Dr. Crowley came to Beacon Hills High School at the beginning of the year, replacing Mr. Harris after his encounter with the Dark Druid. He teaches Scott’s AP Chemistry class, and he’s one of the hardest teachers Scott’s ever had.

Scott and Melissa arrive at Dr. Crowley’s open door. Melissa steps inside briskly, a smile spread across her face, and Scott slides in behind her, trying to be inconspicuous. Dr. Crowley rises from his chair, stretching out a hand as he steps towards them.

Dr. Crowley is a little shorter than Scott and slightly on the portly side, and he wears a layer of black stubble on his face, his short hair greying just a bit. He has an intense liking for dark suits, dark ties, and long, dark coats. To Scott’s werewolf senses, he always smells like sulfur, but he chalks that up to Dr. Crowley’s profession as a chemistry teacher.

“I’m Melissa McCall, Scott’s mom,” Melissa says as she takes his hand.

“A pleasure. I’m Dr. Crowley,” Scott’s teacher answers in his rough, Scottish accent.

He gestures at the two chairs beside his desk, and Scott and Melissa each take a seat. Dr. Crowley slides into his high-backed, leather chair and spins to face them, resting his elbows on his desk and steepling his fingers together. He smiles at them.

“Now, this really is a pleasure,” he says. “I didn’t expect to see anyone tonight. Most senior parents don’t come to these events.”

“That’s what I said,” Scott points out, feeling validated.

Melissa gives him a look out of the corner of her eye. “Well, I didn’t get a chance to meet any of Scott’s teachers at the last Parent-Teacher Night.”

“I’m very glad you decided to come tonight, then,” Dr. Crowley replies. “Let’s talk about Scott, shall we?”

“Let’s not,” Scott suggests, and Melissa elbows him in the ribs.

“There’s nothing to be worried about,” Dr. Crowley promises, nodding at Scott briefly. He turns back to Melissa. “Scott’s doing just fine, excellent in fact. My class is not an easy one. I make it that way on purpose to prepare students for college.”

“That’s good to hear. Scott’s had some trouble with his grades in the past.”

Scott feels his face grow warm, and he looks down. He doesn’t really like to be reminded of sophomore year.

“He’s clearly turned that around.” Crowley’s smile never falters. It’s actually a little eerie. “You’ve been accepted at Berkeley, correct, Scott?”

Scott nods. “Yeah. I want to be a vet.”

“Your success in this class bodes well,” Dr. Crowley tells him. “It’s too bad you’ll have to leave your little pack of friends, though. How are you feeling about that?”

“Uh…” Scott’s been trying not to think about that. The idea of the Pack splitting up makes him physically sick. Stiles’ departure left him depressed for weeks until Allison and Isaac teamed up to snap him out of it.

Scott’s not sure how he’s going to deal with the split when it comes in September. Boyd, Erica, and Derek will all stay in Beacon Hills. Boyd and Erica decided they don’t want to go to college, and Derek is going to continue to teach them control. Lydia is heading off to Cal Tech for mathematics. Scott’s only consolation is that Allison is coming with him to Berkeley, and Isaac has chosen to go to the community college in the same town. They want to get an apartment together.

“It will be hard,” he says finally, aware that Dr. Crowley is still staring at him. “Thankfully, we won’t be too far apart.”

“I’m glad to hear it.” Dr. Crowley returns his attention to Melissa. “There’s not really much else to say on the subject of Scott’s grades. He’ll be just fine so long as he remembers to study for finals. Do you have any other questions for me?”

Melissa trades a look with Scott and shakes her head, smiling across the desk at him. Dr. Crowley’s smile widens, and Scott hears his mother’s heartbeat pick up a little. His eyes widen – _what?_

“No, thank you for your time,” she says as she stands, Scott a beat behind her. Dr. Crowley rises as well so he can usher them towards the door and open it for them. He holds out his hand to Melissa who shakes it with another smile and another stutter of her heart. Scott shifts uncomfortably, itching to get out of there.

“Bye,” Melissa says. Dr. Crowley inclines his head.

Scott’s phone buzzes in his pocket as they’re walking down the hallway. He pulls it out, and the screen tells him he has a message from Derek, ordering him to get his ass over to the Hale house. As usual, Derek doesn’t offer any explanation.

“Derek needs me,” Scott says. “Is it alright if I leave?”

“What does he want this time?”

“No idea.”

“Alright, fine. See you later tonight.”

Scott says goodbye and hurries out of the school, breaking into a run when he reaches the parking lot. He rode over here with his mom, so his bike is back at the house. It’s dark enough that he can go full speed without worrying about being seen.

Five minutes later, he’s turning up his driveway, skidding to a halt beside his bike with a spray of gravel. His helmet hangs from the handlebars, the keys inside. Maybe he should be worried about theft, but having everything in one place makes it easier to get moving when something comes up.

He slings one leg across the bike’s seat and draws the helmet over his head. The engine revs, and he spins the bike around, zooming towards the street. Stiles thinks his bike is one of the dumbest things in the entire world, second only to his tattoo, but Scott won’t be convinced otherwise on either account.

Scott zips through town, weaving towards the tamped dirt track that leads into the forest. The thin trees whip by at speeds that would blur to human eyes but plod along in perfect clarity to Scott’s werewolf ones.

He turns onto the road leading up to Derek’s recently rebuilt house. Derek spent the last year on the project, only finishing up two months ago. He lives there with his sister, Cora, and uses his vast amount of land and the surrounding woods to train the Pack. Actually, that’s probably what this is about. Derek is going to have one of the Betas attack Scott to test them both.

Scott grinds to a violent halt at the end of Derek’s driveway, about ten feet from the porch. Instantly, his wolf senses pick up the whiff of a threat, the scent of aggression floating on the wind to his left.

Scott flings himself off his bike in the opposite direction and hits the ground on his shoulder, rolling and ripping his helmet off. Boyd sails over his head, running as he lands, and spins around, dirt puffing up around his feet. He’s partially shifted, fangs out and eyes glowing yellow.

Scott’s so focused on Boyd that he misses the tell-tale sign of a second attack, and a body slams into him from the side. They tumble across the ground in a tangle of limbs, but Scott manages to plant his feet against Erica’s – he can tell its her by the blonde hair in his mouth – and tosses her off him.

Free of her weight, Scott jumps to his feet, just in time to see Boyd rushing towards him. Scott runs to meet him and catches his shirt, easily throwing the other werewolf over his head. Boyd curses as he flies through the air, and he slams into Erica right after she finishes regaining her feet. They collapse together, groaning.

“Enough,” Derek’s voice booms.

Scott stands up from his crouch and brushes the dirt form his jacket. Derek waits on his porch, leaning up against one of the pillars. He wears his customary leather jacket and a grey, V-neck shirt, his jeans dark and battered. As always, there’s a scowl on his face accented by the heavy, black stubble.

“Again with the sneak attacks, Derek?” Scott asks.

“You need to make sure you stay sharp. Don’t keep all of your attention on one opponent, make sure your focus stays wide,” Derek replies. “And I wanted to test Erica and Boyd’s attack.” He turns to look at the two Betas who have finally untangled themselves and climbed to their feet. “When facing an opponent who’s better than you, numbers are your friends. Try attacking together next time.”

Derek only talks this much when he teaches, and Scott groans.

Great. Next time.

Technically, he and Derek are both Alphas. Derek gained his status when he ripped his uncle’s throat out, and Scott became a “True Alpha” through strength of will, though he’s still not entirely sure what that means. Derek is like their wise sage. He handles the training of the Betas, teaches them control and how to embrace their wolves. Scott makes most of the decisions for the Pack. When Derek was in charge of his tiny Pack containing only Erica, Boyd, and Isaac, he made a few bad decisions because he was scared and almost destroyed them all. Now, he’s happy to leave that part of the job to Scott.

“Was this all you wanted?” Scott asks, feeling just a little disgruntled.

“No,” Derek says. He jerks his head towards the front door. “Lydia ordered pizza.”

“Yes!” Erica cheers quietly, and she and Boyd race into the house, missing knocking Derek to the ground by less than an inch. The door slams shut behind them.

“Thanks for getting me out of Parent-Teacher Conferences,” Scott says. His mounts the stairs, and Derek rolls away from the pillar to lead the way inside.

The changes that have been made to the building are amazing. The first floor has an incredibly open and airy feel, large dining area connected to a large kitchen, an equally large living room off to the side. Most of the furniture is made of dark wood, polished to a gleam. All the appliances in the kitchen are state of art and stainless steel, only acquired through Allison’s non-stop badgering. Erica and Boyd somehow convinced Derek to purchase a gaming system and large TV, and it sits across from the most comfortable couch Scott has ever sat on. The second floor is made up of bedrooms and offices, and the third floor is Derek’s personal space. He doesn’t allow anyone up there.

The entire Pack is gathered around the dining table, a stack of ten pizza boxes piled high in the center. Isaac and Cora are physically restraining Erica and Boyd to keep them from ripping into the food.

Scott slides into a seat between Allison and Scott, leaving Derek to take the head of the table. Allison drapes one leg across his lap and smiles up at him. Lydia flips the lid of the top box open, and that serves as a signal for the others to dig in. Isaac and Cora release their captives. The entire Pack lunges forward, and suddenly, the pizza is just gone. Lydia, Allison, and Derek are the only ones who don’t devour the food like animals. Scott is pretty sure he eats an entire pizza by himself.

Afterwards, they swarm into the living room and collapse across the couch and the arm chairs. Scott wedges himself between Allison and Isaac as Boyd turns on the TV and passes Erica a controller. The sounds of their racing game fill the room. Allison uses his shoulder for a pillow while Isaac wraps his arm around the both of them.

Their situation may be a little weird to outsiders, but Scott has never been happier. He and Allison dated for a long time in their earlier high school years, but they broke up because of the stress of the dangers they were facing, and in that time, Allison and Isaac grew closer. When Stiles left, they worked together to drag Scott from his funk, and the three of them just kind of clicked.

The Pack hangs out for the next couple of hours, passing the controllers around in a circle and raiding Derek’s fridge for ice cream more than once. Just after midnight, Derek kicks everyone out, claiming that Cora needs her beauty sleep, though everyone knows that Derek is the one in need of beauty sleep.

“Do you guys want to come over?” Allison asks Scott and Isaac as they stream down the steps in the center of the Pack. “My dad’s out of town for the weekend.”

Even though Chris Argent is on their side now and has been for the past few years, he still makes Scott nervous. Though that might just mostly be because Chris Argent owns a lot of very large guns and Scott is dating his only daughter.

“Sure. I’ll meet you guys there,” Scott says.

Allison and Isaac wave a brief goodbye and link hands, walking towards Allison’s car. Scott pulls out his phone and types a quick message to his mom, telling her he won’t be home tonight so don’t wait up.

He hops on his bike and takes off after Allison’s receding taillights. They drive through the dark forest, keeping the speed down until they leave the unlit road and cruise onto the bright city streets. The Argents’ large, brick house is completely dark when they roll up to it.

The night swallows Scott when Allison turns off her car, but he’s been here enough times that it’s easy to make his way up to the front door. Allison lets him and Isaac in, turning the lights on as they all enter.

“Do you have any food?” Isaac asks, kicking his shoes off.

Allison shoots him a strange look. “You just ate two pizzas and a gallon of ice cream.”

“Yes, but I’m still hungry,” Isaac says, grinning boyishly.

“I could eat, too,” Scott adds.

Allison sighs, just a little exasperated, but she really should be used to the bottomless pits that are the werewolves’ stomachs by now. She gestures towards the kitchen. Scott and Isaac fight to be the first one through the open archway, and Scott shoves his Beta into the wall. He finds boxes of leftover Chinese food in the fridge and throws them all onto the kitchen island along with a container of pasta from the other night.

He passes Isaac a fork. They dig in happily, not even bothering to heat the food up. Allison unloops her scarf from around her neck as she sits down across from them, cocking an eyebrow. “You two are gross.”

Scott grins at her, cheeks puffed out with pad thai.

They clean up after themselves, leaving the black granite countertop as sparkling as when they’d found it. Allison grabs both their hands and leads them upstairs towards her room, her dark curls bouncing across her back.

She flicks the light on and shuts the door, and they tumble onto her bed in a tangled heap. Allison’s head is on Scott’s stomach, and he drapes most of his upper body across Isaac’s, all of their legs tied together. The food and the warm bodies are starting to make Scott sleepy.

“Stiles is coming home soon,” Allison mumbles.

Scott runs his fingers through her hair. “Yeah, in a month.”

“We should do something for him when he gets back,” she says. “Throw a party or something.”

“That’s a good idea,” Isaac agrees, his words softened by a faint snoring.

“There should be balloons,” Allison murmurs, but that’s as far as she gets before she drops off into sleep.

* * *

 

Derek shuts the door after the Pack, rubbing at his eyes as silence falls across his house. Cora rolls off the couch, and Derek wanders back into the kitchen to clean up the mess of pizza. “Are you going to help with this?” he asks when he sees Cora heading for the stairs.

She smiles at him over her shoulder, face framed by her long, brown hair. “I can’t. I need my beauty sleep.”

He probably should have seen that coming.

Cora flounces up the stairs and disappears around the corner, leaving Derek in the quiet dining hall. Derek gathers up all the pizza boxes in his arms and carries them outside to the large garbage cans. When he goes back in, he stuffs the sticky, empty bowls into the dishwasher and runs a rag over both the dining and coffee table, then dumps the cloth in the sink. Next, he opens the freezer to check on the status of his ice cream supply. Of course, the Pack decimated it. He’ll have to run to the store tomorrow.

Derek falls back onto the couch, stretching out full-length and tucking his hands under his head. The entire living room smells of the Pack, and it comforts him as his eyes slip shut. The only scent that’s missing is Stiles’. Every time he notices the absence, his heart drops.

Stiles is the heart of the Pack. Scott leads them, and Derek teaches them, but Stiles is the who who keeps everyone together. He inspires them with his crazy research boards and his ceaseless chatter and optimism.

Derek will never admit it to Stiles or anyone else, but he misses Stiles’ chatter and presence. He’ll bite anyone who suggests it, though.

Eventually, Derek gets up and slowly makes his way upstairs to his room. He shoves the door open and flicks the light on. His king-sized bed dominates most of the floor, covered in a grey comforter and a mound of pillows. He has a wooden chest of drawers beside his closet, and all that sits of top of it is a lamp and a photo of the Pack, the same picture that everyone else has.

Derek dumps his jacket across the rolling chair at his desk and heads into the attached bathroom, quickly getting ready for bed. He stares at the photo when he renters the room. Stiles grins broadly, one arm wrapped around Scott’s shoulders and the other draped over Lydia. His hair sticks up in an untamable jumble, just like it always does, and there’s a glint in his eyes like he’s just done something naughty.

Derek moves the framed photo to his little bedside table and then turns off the light. A shaft of moonlight illuminates the picture, and he turns so he can look at it, one hand pillowed under his head.

Derek is not a sap.

Stiles’ face is the last thing he sees before he falls asleep.

* * *

 

Scott wakes up slowly, pressed up against Isaac’s back. He yawns and rolls over until he can see his phone and check the time. It’s nearly 10:30 in the morning. Yawning, he sits up, and the motion makes Isaac stir. He cracks his eyes open and smiles when he sees Scott. “Hey,” he mumbles.

“Hey,” Scott replies. He leans down to give Isaac a light kiss.

They climb out of bed and head downstairs, leaving Allison half-asleep and mumbling something about evergreen trees. Scott and Isaac head into the kitchen and start opening up all the cabinets. Scott comes up with a box of pancake mix and shakes it happily at Isaac. “Check it out.”

“Nice.” Isaac grins.

Allison is awake by the time they’re finished making breakfast. Hair tangled around her face, she yawns as she comes into the room, nose twitching as she takes in the smell of warm maple syrup and buttery pancakes.

Isaac gathers plates and silverware and puts them on the island while Scott stacks the pancakes into a three-foot tower atop a platter.

Their breakfast doesn’t last much longer than dinner did last night.

“What are you guys up to today?” Allison asks. She starts gathering up the sticky plates and takes them over to the sink. “We could hang out.”

“I would love to, but I think my mom wants me to come home and spend some time with her,” Scott says. He takes a towel from the counter, drying the dishes Allison hands him.

“Derek said something about training,” Isaac adds, sounding a little disgruntled. “Maybe tomorrow. We can study or something.”

Allison sighs in disappointment.

They finish up the dishes quickly, and then Scott and Isaac leave, pausing at the front door to plant kisses on Allison’s cheeks at the same time.

Isaac walks Scott to his bike and holds his helmet while he gets on. “Text me later?” Scott asks.

“Yeah.” Isaac rolls his eyes. “If Derek doesn’t pummel me into a pulp first.”

Scott laughs. “Good luck.”

His mom’s car is in the driveway when he gets home, and he parks his bike beside it, jumping up the stairs and letting himself into the house. “Mom, I’m home!” he calls, hanging his jacket from one of the hooks.

Melissa pokes her head out of the kitchen. “Hey. Come here, I have something to tell you.”

Curious, Scott kicks off his shoes and joins her in the kitchen, leaning up against the counter and snagging an apple from the bowl by his elbow. “What’s up.”

“You’re not going to believe what happened last night,” Melissa says excitedly. Her heart beats quickly.

“What?”

Melissa’s cheeks turn pink. “Your teacher, Dr. Crowley, called last night.”

“What? Why?” Scott demands, brow furrowed.

“He asked me to dinner! On Monday night!”

The apple falls from Scott’s nerveless fingers and hits the ground with a thud, unbitten. “What!”

“Yes!” Melissa obviously doesn’t hear the panic in Scott’s voice. “He said he really enjoyed meeting me and wanted a chance to get to know me better.”

“What did you say?”

“I said yes, of course!” Melissa beams at him, face practically glowing. The scent of her excitement wafts off her in great waves.

“Mom, no!” Scott cries. “Don’t you realize I have to go to his class on Monday? I have to see him everyday! Don’t you see how weird and awkward this is going to be for me?”

Melissa’s face falls. “Scott, don’t you want me to be happy?”

Guilt washes over Scott, and he drops his head, staring at the floor. “Of course. Mom. It’s just that…he’s my teacher! It’s weird!”

“It’s just one date,” Melissa says. “I doubt anything will come of it, but I haven’t gone out in so long.”

“Alright,” Scott sighs, running a hand through his coarse, black hair. “Alright.”

“Thank you!” Melissa squeals and scurries over to scoop Scott up in an embarrassing hug. She plants a kiss on his cheek. “You’re the best son ever!”

Scott squirms away, loudly protesting the indignity of it. Laughing, Melissa lets him go after one last hair tussle. Scott dodges away from her and flees up the stairs to his room. “Love you!” Melissa calls after him.

“Love you, too,” Scott replies with only a little bit of sarcasm in his voice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you're all enjoying the story so far! I'd love to hear your thoughts about it so go ahead a leave a comment!


	3. Date Night

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, college is busy. So here's a 10,000 word chapter.

Chapter Three

Date Night

Sam and Dean spend all weekend searching for the vampire. They wander around the campus in every direction they can think of, seemingly at random. Sam is on his computer at practically every moment, looking for evidence of a third attack and researching plausible lair locations.

Dean contributes by eating his weight in pie. He claims he’s gathering eye-witness accounts, but Sam is skeptical of his true motives.

Saturday is a complete bust. All they end up with are sore feet and mild cases of dehydration. Dean doesn’t even enjoy his bacon cheeseburger that evening, that’s how upset he is, and they don’t go to bed until 3am, having spent all night wandering the streets.

The next day, Dean wakes up grumpy and out of sorts. He glowers at everything when Sam opens the door and lets the strong sunlight pour into the room. Sam is obnoxiously awake and probably has been for several hours. He tosses a paper bag onto Dean’s bed and disappears into the small bathroom.

Dean sits up slowly, knocking a grinning, cat-shaped pillow to the floor, and drags the white bag towards him. Not awake enough to open it properly, he rips it in half, and a chocolate donut with sprinkles falls onto his bed. He smiles for the first time and crams the whole thing into his mouth.

Sam comes out of the bathroom and raises an eyebrow at the pile of crumbs on the mattress. Dean stares at him grumpily.

Two hours later, Dean is finally ready to go. He spent half of that time teasing his hair into the perfect spike while Sam sat at the dining table, tapping his fingers. Dean throws his brown jacket with the high collar on and tucks his gun into his waistband.

“Let’s go then,” he sighs.

“Took you long enough,” Sam gripes, heaving himself up from the chair. He grabs the olive-green duffel bag by the door and tosses it over his shoulder. The duffel contains their machetes, several clips of ammo, a bottle of lighter fluid, and a container of salt. The Hunter’s Basic, Essential Kit.

Dean locks up, a look of disgust on his face when he shoves the cat key into his pocket.

They begin their aimless wandering again, their search grid a couple of blocks wider. Lunch comes and goes uneventfully and fruitlessly (though it probably really should’ve been considered dinner).

“Maybe we should go talk to more people,” Sam says, digging around in his plastic to-go bowl for the last piece of chicken in his salad.

“I’m too grumpy to talk to anyone,” Dean snarls, angrily eating his cheeseburger.

They toss their trash away and keep walking, exploring new neighborhoods further and further from the center of campus. The shadows lengthen as the sun sets, and Dean kicks at all the stones unfortunate enough to fall into his path. The city darkens fully, and people disappear inside their houses. The street lamps beat down upon their heads, their only source of illumination in the grey streets.

And then they have an amazing stroke of luck.

Sam rounds the next corner first, and his leg shoots out to the side, stomping on Dean’s foot before Dean can send another rock skittering across the street. Dean looks up at him reproachfully, but Sam shoots him a glare and holds a finger up to his lips. Then he nods up the street.

Dean follows his gaze, and a grin spreads across his face before he can stop it. The vampire is lounging against a wall at the far end of the road, looking just like Stiles described him. Sam pulls a campus map out and unfolds it, peering down at the lines as if he’s lost, and Dean joins him, positioning himself so he can whisper in his brother’s ear.

“That’s our vamp,” he says.

“Yes, I can see that,” Sam replies, lifting the map up and spinning it around.

Dean glares at him.

“What do you want to do?” Sam asks.

“We could take him out now.” Dean points at a random spot on the map, an excited expression coming over his face like he’s found what they’re looking for.

Sam folds up half the map and brings it closer to his face to squint at it. “Too risky. We should follow him back to his nest.”

“Dude, why’d you even ask me if you already had a plan?” Dean hisses, kicking Sam in the ankle.

Sam pointedly ignores him. He tucks the map away in the inside pocket of his jacket so it will be in easy reach just in case they get “lost” again. At the same time, the vampire pushes off the wall and sets off down the street, quickly disappearing around a corner.

Dean slaps Sam on the arm. “Dude, come on.”

They hurry after their prey, pausing at the corner to make sure he’s not looking back in their direction, but the vampire seems unconcerned. He walks with a swagger, his thumbs hooked in his pockets and his shoulders slouched. His greasy ponytail trails down his jacket, too heavy for the wind to lift.

The vamp leads them on a merry chase through the city for the entire night. The route he takes twists and turns with no discernable pattern or destination, so Dean worries that the creature knows they’re there and is just waiting for an opportune moment to attack, but he never pauses, and he never looks back. He seems to be searching for something, another victim, perhaps, but he doesn’t find anything – or anyone.

They walk for hours. Sam and Dean stroll along as casually as they can so they don’t attract the attention of the other people they pass. The number of civilians they see shrinks with every street, then they move into an industrial neighborhood, full of warehouses and dotted with factories that belch smoke into the black sky that has become tinged with red without either of them realizing it.

The vampire begins to move more quickly, and Sam and Dean match their step to his. They glance at each other, and Sam’s hand tightens on the strap of his duffel. Without warning, the vampire stops before a large warehouse. Sam and Dean fling themselves around the nearest corner, flattening themselves against the wall, and Dean pokes his head out just far enough to see what’s going on.

The nest is an abandoned building. All of the windows are either boarded up or covered with thick layers of newspaper on the inside, and the bricks are grey and dirty and streaked with rain water, and a thick chain is looped around the door handles, secured by a large lock.

The vamp pulls a key from the pocket of his leather jacket and unwinds the chain, letting it spool to the ground. A grinding squeal fills the air as he pulls the door open and continues until he’s stepped inside and locked himself in.

Sam checks the time on his phone. “It’s 4:30. What do you want to do?”

“Full sunrise is in about another hour,” Dean says, eyeing the sky. He bites back a yawn. “Might as well go in when it’s fully light and take this motherfucker out.”

“We could come back later today or tomorrow morning, when we’re rested.”

“No, I want to get this over with.”

Dean wants to finish this hunt now partially because he’s tired and partially because he told himself he wouldn’t text Stiles until their business was over. He really wants to text Stiles, though he’s not entirely sure why. There was something pure and innocent about him when they met at the party on Friday night. Dean doesn’t see a lot of innocence in his life, and it was refreshing.

“Okay,” Sam says. He drops the duffel to the ground and crouches down beside it. The sound of the zipper is loud in the still, pre-morning air, but there’s no one but them around to hear it. The sides of the bag fall open to reveal a jumbled pile of machetes and hand guns. Sam pulls the blades out and passes one to Dean who tests the edge against his thumb, finding it sharp. Sam also takes two syringes filled with a dark, red liquid from the bag, careful to keep the sharp needle pointed away from himself.

“Dead man’s blood,” he says as he holds one out for Dean to take. “Just in case.”

Dean puts his syringe into one of his thick jacket pockets. Then he settles himself down beside Sam and leans up against the wall to await the sun.

 

Sam has to nudge Dean several times before his brother finally comes awake. Dean lifts his hand to ward off the bright sunlight that’s filtering through the thin cloud cover to coat the streets. “What time is it?” he groans, mouth tacky and gross-tasting, his back sore.

“Just after seven,” Sam answers. “Are you ready?”

Dean nods, but it’s a struggle to get himself upright. He ends up braced against the wall with the edge of his machete tilted dangerously towards his knees.

Shaking the last of the sleep from his head, he follows Sam around the corner and down the street towards the vamp’s nest. The chain is still pooled on the ground in a heap, the lock on top, but Dean figures it’s secured on the inside somehow.

“Look at this.” Sam tugs on Dean’s sleeve and points up the side of the building towards a window with a broken bottom half. A thick, black cloth shivers slightly in the wind. “I’ll boost you up, and then you can come let me in.”

“I’ll Rock-Paper-Scissors you for it,” Dean suggests, and Sam scowls at him.

“No. You’re slightly smaller than me, so it’ll be easier for you.”

“By three inches,” Dean protests on principle, but he shoves his machete through his belt anyways.

Sam crouches down beside the wall and laces his fingers together, watching as Dean takes a few steps back and eyes the distance between the ground and the window. He runs towards the building, gathering as much speed as he can in the short span, and jumps, planting one foot in Sam’s waiting hands. Sam stands up in an explosion of movement and flings his arms upwards, propelling Dean into the air. Dean stretches out his arm, and his fingers catch on the windowsill. He throws his other hand up just as his body slams into the wall with a thud that drives the wind from his lungs.

There’s no time to hang there and regain his breath, though. Dean pulls himself up, muscles straining, and tumbles into a dark room. The floor feels like cold cement beneath his hands, and he pulls a flashlight from his pocket, cautiously shining it around. He’s fallen into a small office above the main floor of the warehouse. There’s a barren desk across from him, and a set of filing cabinets lined up against one wall.

Dean adjusts his machete as he stands and moves towards the door with soft steps. On the other side of the office, he pauses to listen for signs that the vamp is moving about. The silence settles on his shoulders like dirt poured in a grave, and the beam of his flashlight fades away to nothing before reaching the far end of the warehouse.

He spots a door marked ‘Stairs’ about ten feet to his right and moves towards it, wincing when his boots ring slightly on the metal catwalk. The door opens quietly under his hand, and he hurries down the narrow staircase, sliding out into the dark main room. A slim slice of light leeches in from underneath the door, but it doesn’t make it more than a few inches before the blackness swallows it.

Dean hurries across the floor until he’s standing in front of the double doors. He tests the handle carefully, and to his great surprise, it moves easily beneath his hand and clicks open. His eyes widen with surprise.

No. Fucking. Way.

Right before he goes to shove the doors open, he remembers how it squealed and bellowed, and he stops. “Sam,” he hisses through the split down the middle.

“Dean?” Sam’s voice slides back to him.

“The door was open the whole fucking time,” he grumbles.

“You’re kidding.”

“No, I’m not kidding!”

“Then hurry up and open it,” Sam urges.

“I can’t. It makes noise, remember?”

Sam falls silent, and Dean hunts around for a miraculous can of oil to use on the hinges. Stranger things have happened in their adventures. The cement floor around him is covered in dust but nothing else, and he sighs. “We’ll just have to do it,” Sam says finally. “We’ll throw the doors open and leave them, so the sunlight disorients the vamp.”

“Alright,” Dean agrees. “Just let me get out of the way.”

He steps back and to the side, replacing the flashlight with his machete, and looks deeper into the warehouse so the light won’t blind him when the doors open. He hears Sam’s quiet countdown, and then a grinding screech wrenches at his ears. The sun spills into the room, bright and broken by Sam’s large, quick shadow. Somewhere, the vampire curses, the echo distorted by the large space.

Sam and Dean split up and run into the depths of the warehouse, the sun at their backs lighting the way. Twenty feet in, storage containers start to appear, towering several feet over Dean’s head. He skirts around them, mind working to figure out where he would make his bed if he were the vamp. Probably towards the center of the warehouse, among the containers.

When a path opens up between the metal boxes, he turns into it, and the maze quickly swallows him up. “Hey, freak!” he yells, voice bouncing off the sides of the storage containers. “Breakfast is here!”

He hears someone snarl angrily as he rounds another corner, but he can’t pinpoint which direction it comes from.

“I taste fucking great!” he adds.

Only his instincts, honed by years of life or death situations, save him. A little bit of sunlight filters over the top of the storage containers and flows to the ground, and in it, he sees the barest flicker of a shadow. He throws himself to the side, spinning so his back bangs into the side of a box. A dark shape flies past him and twists around when it hits the ground, disheveled hanks of greasy, black hair falling across its face.

The vampire’s eyes stare at him from inside sunken sockets, and the creature bares his teeth. His white tank top reveals lean limbs corded in muscle and inscribed with pale blue veins, and his fingers are curled into claws.

“Dude, haven’t you ever heard of shampoo?” Dean quips as he shifts his grip on the handle of his machete. “I bet my brother could recommend a good brand to you.

The vampire growls something that might have once been words and flings himself in Dean’s direction. Dean pushes himself off of the container and tries to dodge around the outstretched hands, but the space is too small, and the vampire catches the back of his jacket.

Suddenly, Dean is airborne, flying backwards, away from the vamp. He slams into a storage container with a deafening bang and crumples to the ground, machete lost somewhere along the way. He groans as flashes of light pierce his vision, and his head throbs.

“Dean!” he hears Sam shout, but he can’t tell if his brother is nearby or lost somewhere within the maze.

Dean shakes his head to clear it. Pain jabs through his skull, but the white lightning bolts recede, and he can finally see the angry vampire stalking towards him. Sam is nowhere in sight. Dean struggles upright, casting around for his fallen machete. It lies halfway between him and the oncoming vampire.

Dean slips his hand into his pocket and grips the syringe of dead man’s blood. He pulls it out slowly, keeping it tucked behind his leg and out of sight. Eyes locked on the vampire, Dean rushes forward. The creature breaks into a run as well, and Dean drops to his knees, sliding towards his weapon. They collide right as his fingers brush the hilt, and the machete is knocked away from him. The vamp’s teeth snap at his face, but Dean manages to wedge one forearm under his chin, and he wildly stabs upwards with the syringe. The long needle sinks into the vamp’s pale neck, and Dean jams his thumb down on the plunger, shooting all of its vile contents into the creature’s vein.

The vampire goes rigid for a moment before all his muscles give way, and he collapses on top of Dean. He groans in annoyance and shoves the creature off. The vamp tries to resist, but he has no control over his limbs, and Dean rolls over with another grunt, dragging himself to his feet.

In that moment, Sam rushes around the corner, eyes wild and hair running away from his head. “Are you okay?” he demands.

“Freaking awesome,” Dean says darkly. He stumbles across the floor and retrieves his machete, swinging it through the air and listening to the whine. “Let’s end this.”

He walks back to the vampire who stares up at him with hateful eyes and a smile full of teeth. “Can it,” Dean tells him, and with one great swipe of his blade, he cuts the vamp’s head clean off.

A geyser of blood erupts from the stump, splashes across the walls, and spills over the floor. Dean steps back just before it reaches his boots. The vampire’s body twitches a couple of times as the last dregs of blood pump out of the veins.

Dean wipes his blade off on the vamp’s jacket and then looks over at Sam. “Well, that was just a great, big ball of fun.”

“Let’s get out of here.”

They gather up the body and the head, and bundle them both up in a large piece of tarp that they find by the door. They manhandle the package out the door, and Dean kicks it shut behind them. They hurry through the quiet streets, trying to look like workers transporting goods, until they come to a grey river that cuts through the industrial district. Sam checks up and down the street and sees that it’s empty, so the two of them lift the decapitated vampire over the railing and dump it into the water. It hits with a loud splash and disappears from sight almost instantly.

“Back to the motel?” Sam suggests.

Dean nods in agreement.

They make their way back to the motel, hands stuffed in pockets and heads bowed. When they arrive, Dean goes straight to the shower. There’s no real blood on him, but he still feels like he can smell it. He turns the water off and walks back into the room in nothing but his boxers. He falls face first into bed as Sam takes over the bathroom.

Dean wakes up three hours later and immediately goes for his phone. It’s nearly one in the afternoon. He types up a quick message to Stiles and hits send.

* * *

 

On Saturday, Stiles checks his phone over 300 times. Jacob counts. They spend all day studying together in the library, leaving their books spread out across the table when they head to the dining hall for a quick lunch. Jacob snorts when he sees Stiles pull his phone from his pocket.

“Why don’t you just text him?” he demands. They pause to let a car race by before crossing the street.

“I don’t have his number,” Stiles says sheepishly. He tucks his phone away and ignores the aghast look Jacob gives him.

“How do you know he’ll actually text you?”

“He said he would.”

Stiles doesn’t know the protocol for how long you wait before contacting someone you’ve met for the first time. He doesn’t know if it’s a following day kind of thing, or if you wait for a few days so you don’t seem too eager. The uncertainty is making his ADHD flare up, and he can’t stop tapping his fingers against his leg.

He sets his phone by his plate while he eats, keeping one eye on the lookout in case it lights up, and he makes sure it’s in view when he and Jacob return to the library. Jacob eventually stops questioning him. The text in his book dances before his eyes, and Stiles has a hard time remember what he’s supposed to be doing.

After dinner, he and Jacob head back to their dorm and part ways. Stiles locks the door behind him, tossing his backpack onto the floor by his bed. He flops down at his desk and pulls his computer towards him. He promised Scott that he would call tonight. Stiles opens up Skype and checks the time, figuring that Scott should be free by now.

He clicks on the little green phone and leans back in his chair, the sound of computerized ringing filling his room. Scott picks up after the fourth tone, and his boyish face fills the screen, slightly distorted by Stiles’ poor Internet connection but grinning.

Stiles feels some of the tension drain from his shoulders, and he grins back. “Hey, Scott.”

“Stiles!” Scott’s voice lags a second behind his lips. “How are you, man?”

“Swamped with work,” he groans.

Scott throws back his head and laughs. “Me too, though I can’t imagine my workload is anything like yours.”

“You never do your work, anyways,” Stiles says jokingly.

Scott assumes a hurt look. “I do to!”

“Su-ure.” Stiles drags out the syllable and laughs, and Scott rolls his eyes at him. “How’s the Pack?”

“The Pack’s good,” Scott answers. “Derek insists on sneak attacking me every time I go over to his house, and that’s getting annoying, but it’s good for the Betas.”

“No supernatural beasties have come a-prowling?”

Scott shakes his head and then pulls a piece of pizza out of nowhere and starts eating it. “Surprisingly, no. It’s been quiet this year.”

It’s moments like these that make Stiles feel like _he_ was the magnet that drew darkness to Beacon Hills, not the Nemeton tree. He doesn’t let it show on his face, though, but cracks a smile again. “Well, that’s good.”

“Dude, I saw the killings on your campus on the news.” Scott’s face becomes serious, and he leans forward, peering intently into his computer. “Have you–?”

“I haven’t looked into them,” Stiles interrupts quickly. “The police can handle it.”

“Okay.” Scott doesn’t press, and Stiles changes the subject.

“I went to a party last night. It was a Halloween in April theme.”

“Did you have fun?” Scott asks through a mouthful of pizza.

“Yeah. Actually, I gave my number to a boy.”

Scott drops the slice and claps his hands to his cheeks, mouth popping open and giving Stiles a view of half-chewed pizza that he doesn’t need to see. “You did?! Has he texted you yet?”

“Not yet.” Stiles looks down at his fingers and tangles them together in his lap. “Is that normal?”

“Totally normal,” Scott reassures him. “He’s probably just busy. You’ll hear from him soon.”

“I hope so.” Stiles flushes and starts to change the subject again, but Scott beats him to the punch.

“What’s his name?”

“Dean.”

“ _Oooo_.” Scott waggles his eyebrows, and Stiles wants to reach through the computer screen and smack him.

“How’s Derek?” Stiles asks hesitantly, and he feels the tips of his ears heat up. He doesn’t know why he’s so embarrassed. What he really wants to ask is does Derek ask about him? They haven’t talked much over the past year, because Stiles is too awkward to call him, and Derek doesn’t call or text people, period unless it’s an emergency.

“He’s really fallen into his role in the Pack. He’s whipping the Betas into shape.” Scott pauses. “I think he misses you.”

Stiles is pleased to hear this, and that makes him blush even more.

“Oh, Stiles, I have something crazy to tell you!” Scott exclaims, and Stiles cocks his head curiously. “I’ve told you about my new chem teacher, right?”

Stiles nods. “Dr. Crowley.”

“Right. On Friday night, my mom made me go to Parent-Teacher Conferences with her.”

“Does she know you’re a senior?”

“Apparently not. Anyway, she met Dr. Crowley for the first time, and when I got back from a Pack meeting, she told me that he had called and asked her out! To dinner! On Monday night!”

“What? That’s hilarious…that’s horrible. Very horrible,” he amends when he sees Scott’s stricken face. “Definitely a catastrophe of apocalyptic proportion.”

Scott nods vigorously. “I have to go to his class on Monday! What do I say to him?”

“Have her home by ten?”

That earns him a withering look. “What if it goes terribly, and I have to face him on Tuesday? Or even worse, what if it goes well, and they actually start _dating_?”

“Scott, calm down,” Stiles says, a bit thrown by their sudden role reversal. Usually, he’s the one freaking out, and Scott has to talk him down rationally. “You’re thinking too far ahead. Don’t worry about it.”

“You’re right.” Scott takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly “Thanks.”

“You have to keep me posted, okay? I want to know _all_ the details.”

“Alright,” Scott promises. He glances away from the screen for a moment and picks up his discarded pizza. “I should go. I’ve got a whole chapter to read in my chemistry book.”

Stiles grimaces. “Good luck. Talk to you later.”

He hangs up first and closes his computer. A smile flits his face. Scott will become a total wreck if Melissa McCall actually starts dating his teacher. Stiles gets ready for bed and turns out the light. As his eyes slip shut, he wonders if he can get away with goofing off tomorrow instead of doing homework. His phone lies right beside his head.

 

Stiles decides to text Derek Sunday morning. While he waits for a reply, he watches an unhealthy amount of Netflix and plays video games. Stiles’ reflexes are impeccable and his fingers rock steady, despite what his ADHD would have other people believe.

Derek replies five hours later with a one-word reply – _Good_. Derek likes to use perfect grammar when his messages aren’t filled with autocorrect errors, so Stiles has decided that he’s actually a seventy-year-old man in disguise. Stiles tries all day to engage Derek in conversation, but he never gets a reply with more than three words in it, and it always comes at least thirty minutes after Stiles sends his message.

Around dinnertime, Stiles gives up. Dean still hasn’t texted him, and Stiles starts to feel nerves clawing at his stomach. Dean is so much older than him, and he’s probably realized that it’s not cool for him to associate with a weedy, little freshman like Stiles. That night, Stiles forces himself to put his phone far away from him, so he won’t wake up every five minutes to check it.

Stiles only has two classes on Monday, and they are both over before noon. Afterwards, he heads to the library to make up for all the work he didn’t do yesterday. He buries himself in his books and tries to forget about Dean.

And then his phone buzzes.

Stiles’ head snaps up, and his hand descends on his phone instantly. There’s a message from an unknown number waiting for him when he unlocks the device, and he opens up the text with shaking fingers.

_hey stiles its dean.  
_ _sorry this took so long my brother and i had to finish up a job.  
_ _would you like to get a drink with us tonight to celebrate?_

* * *

Scott wakes up on Monday morning with a feeling of dread in his stomach. He takes as long as he can getting ready, glad that his mother left early to get to work. He sticks a bagel slathered with cream cheese in his mouth and walks outside to his bike. He forgoes his helmet this time so he can eat his breakfast as he rides to school, swallowing the last bite as he pulls into the parking lot.

Allison and Isaac wave at him from the front entrance, and he jogs up the stairs, wondering if his face is as green as his stomach feels. Allison pats his back comfortingly as they slide through the doors and into the crush of students. He’d called them both right after his mom had dropped her bomb and spent over an hour panicking as they listened.

“At least you have chemistry fist,” Isaac points out. “That way you get it over with.”

“I think I’m going to be sick,” Scott mutters.

Allison and Isaac pass him off to Lydia since she’s in AP Chemistry with him, and they wave goodbye, disappearing down the hallway. Lydia flips her long, strawberry blonde hair over her shoulder and gives him a look. “Are you sick.”

“No. I just don’t want to go to chemistry.”

“Because Dr. Crowley is taking your mom out tonight.”

Scott glares at her even though everyone in the Pack knows that’s a dangerous pastime. “Yes. Thank you for reminding me.”

“You’re welcome.” She gives him an angel-faced smile.

Scott hunches his shoulders and ducks his head when they enter the classroom, making sure Lydia is between him and Dr. Crowley’s desk, and he sits in the chair behind her, standing his textbook up and hiding his face behind it.

“You’re such a wimp,” Lydia tells him without turning around, and Scott ignores her.

Dr. Crowley gets up from his chair, dressed in another dark suit, and walks around his desk to stand in front of them. “Because I am a kind and…loving soul, we are going to spend today reviewing for Wednesday’s test, rather than move on to something new.”

A sigh of relief ripples around the room, and even Lydia’s shoulders relax. Dr. Crowley’s tests are harder than defusing a nuclear bomb in less than thirty seconds. It’s as if he wants them to know what Hell is like.

Dr. Crowley is one of those teachers who likes to speak quietly in order to force his students to pay attention, so Scott finally puts his book down, though he makes sure his face is hidden by Lydia’s back at all times. The hour drags by. Scott’s leg jiggles constantly under his desk, and his wolf hearing seems to have gone a little haywire due to stress, because he can hear the teacher in the classroom down the hall talking about enzymes.

When the bell finally does ring, he jumps up violently and knocks his textbook to the floor. The thud makes the whole class turn to look at him, and Lydia’s face says she’s wondering how the hell he’s alive after all these years. Scott’s head turns into a volcano.

He hides behind the other students as they stand and make their way to the door. He’s nearly there, nearly free, when Dr. Crowley calls out to him. “Scott, could you stay a moment?”

Lydia laughs at his panic-stricken face and flounces out of the room, hips swaying in her flower-print dress.

Scott turns slowly. Dr. Crowley has returned to his desk and is sitting with one arm draped languidly across his knee. “Don’t look so nervous, Scott,” he says. “I just wanted to ask what type of restaurant your mother likes.”

“Oh.” Scott stuffs his hands into his pockets, the back of his neck hot. “Well, she likes Chinese food. Also Thai food. And Italian. Actually, she likes pretty much everything except Mexican.”

“That narrows my options down,” Dr. Crowley says drily.

Scott doesn’t reply, just keeps rocking back and forth awkwardly.

“I also want you to know that no matter what happens tonight, it’s not going to effect my grading of your test.”

“Okay,” Scott replies, because that seems like the expected answer.

“I’ll see you tomorrow.” Dr. Crowley dismisses him, and Scott bolts from the classroom, a pit of relief opening up in his stomach.

The rest of the day passes much less disastrously, though he can’t stop thinking about the coming night. Should he be at home when Dr. Crowley comes to pick his mom up, or should he make sure he’s out of the way? He can very easily go spend the night at Allison’s.

He makes his decision by the time the final bell rings. He’ll make sure he’s home, but he’ll stay out of the way. And he’ll keep his phone by his fingertips the whole night, just in case his mom needs a bailout.

Allison, Isaac, and Scott leave school together and make their way through the streets to the woods. It’s become their after school ritual. They wander the trails for a few hours, talking or practicing their skills. Sometimes, Allison will store her crossbow in the trunk of her car and will pull it out for target practice, while Scott and Isaac chase each other around in their wolf forms. Today, Allison brings her set of silver throwing knives, and when they find a wide, open clearing, she sets about burying them into tree trunks up to their hilts.

Scott returns to his house just after six to find Melissa racing around in a mild state of panic. She’s trying to juggle her shoes and her purse, and she only has one earring on. She’s wearing her black, sleeveless dress, but there are three other outfits draped across the kitchen table; one of the sleeves is perilously close to a candle flame.

“Woah, Mom, slow down,” Scott says when she nearly bowls him over. He grabs her arm and pulls her to a stop, effortlessly taking her shoes and purse from her hand. “What’s the matter?”

She looks at him breathlessly, cheeks tinged pink. “I don’t know what to wear, and I don’t know where my other earring is, and he’s going to be here soon, and I–!”

“Mom, you look great,” Scott interrupts. “Why don’t you sit down and put your shoes on, and I’ll go see if I can find your earring.”

Melissa takes a deep breath and nods, and when Scott releases her hand, she goes to the kitchen table and sits down. Scott heads upstairs and enters her bedroom. Melissa keeps her jewelry box on her dresser, tucked up next to her mirror, so Scott opens it up. He roots around inside and finds Melissa’s missing earring beneath her tangle of rings.

He hurries back to the kitchen to find that his mother has completely dismantled her purse, and its contents have replaced the clothing on the table. The clothes now lie in a crumpled pile on the floor.

“I found your earring,” he says, holding it out. “What are you doing to your purse?”

“I’m trying to make sure I have everything.” She takes the earring form him and threads it through her ear. “Do you think I’ll need a flashlight?”

“No,” Scott answers. “You’re just going on a date.”

He pulls her clutch from her hand and sweeps all her things back into it. Lip gloss, tic tacs, hand sanitizer, and a fistful of loose change tumble past his fingers. He tosses a pen, her wallet, glasses sleeve, and compact in after them.

The doorbell rings, and a panicked look stretches over Melissa’s face. Scott hands her the clutch, giving her a reassuring look. “Ready?”

She shakes her head. “Will you get the door? I need a second.”

Scott agrees, even though he doesn’t really want to. He takes a deep breath as he reaches the door and then pulls it open. Dr. Crowley stands there with his hands in the pockets of his knee-length, black coat. He inclines his head when he sees Scott.

“Hello, Scott,” he says, a faint smile on his lips.

“Hi,” Scott replies. He hesitates. “Come in. I’ll tell my mom you’re here.”

He steps back to allow Dr. Crowley to enter and turns away, returning to the kitchen. “Are you ready?” he asks Melissa quietly.

His mother takes a deep breath, checks her reflection in her compact one last time, and stands, straightening her dress. She sweeps out of the kitchen, smiling at Dr. Crowley when she sees him standing in the entranceway. “Fergus, hi,” she says.

Scott almost chokes on his own spit. He forgot that Dr. Crowley’s first name is Fergus. It’s literally the funniest name he’s ever heard.

“Actually, I prefer Gus,” Dr. Crowley reminds her, smiling.

Melissa turns red. “Oh, that’s right. You told me that on the phone. I’m so sorry!”

“Don’t worry yourself,” Dr. Crowley tells her. “It’s not a big deal. Shall we go?”

Melissa shakes herself slightly and nods. She pulls her blue coat from its hook, and Dr. Crowley helps her thread her arms through the sleeves. Scott watches with his arms folded across his chest.

At the door, Melissa turns and looks back at him. “There’s money on the table if you want to order dinner, okay?”

“Okay,” Scott agrees. “See you tonight.”

“I love you.” She gives him one more smile. Dr. Crowley rests his hand on the small over her back as they leave the house, and then the door swings shut.

* * *

 

_Hi Dean I would love to_

Stiles hits send, butterflies churning in his stomach. It doesn’t take long for Dean’s reply to pop up on his screen.

_awesome! do you know sullivans bar?_

Relief floods his stomach. Sullivan’s Bar is one of the few places on campus that consistently lets students in without carding them. He replies,

_Yeah! Its a popular hangout place_

_how does 8 sound?_

He checks the clock as he waits. It’s after one; plenty of times to get ready.

_8 sounds great! Looking forward to it!_

_:D_

Stiles stuffs his phone into his pocket and gathers up all his things, jamming them haphazardly into his bag. There’s no way that he can study now that he has this date-thing looming over his head. He hurries out of the library and back to his dorm, tossing his things onto his bed without really stepping into the room. Instead, he crosses the hall and begins banging on Jacob’s door.

The sound of muffled cursing comes from within. Then the door swings open, and Jacob’s head appears, hair sticking up randomly, blinking in the light. “What?” he snaps.

“He texted me!” Stiles pushes his way into Jacob’s room.

“Come in,” Jacob mutters at his back. “Who texted you?”

“Dean! The guy from the party!”

Stiles turns around just in time to see Jacob roll his eyes knowingly and shut the door. “Ah, yes. The text you’ve been obsessively checking your phone for all weekend.”

Stiles flops down on Jacob’s bed. “I need your help getting ready.”

“What time is this date?” Jacob asks, knocking Stiles’ shoes off the rumpled covers.

“Eight.”

“That’s not for seven hours! What are you doing here?”

“I’m not entirely sure it’s really a date,” Stiles continues, bypassing Jacob’s outburst. “His brother is going to be there, too.”

Jacob sits down on the edge of the bed, by Stiles’ hip. “That’s weird. Do you know why?”

“He said they just finished a job and are going out to celebrate.”

“Let’s call it half-a-date,” Jacob suggests. “Which is better than not-a-date-at-all.”

“You’re right,” Stiles sighs. “What do you think I should wear?”

“What’s wrong with what you’ve got on?” Jacob’s voice is more than a little sarcastic.

“Nothing, I guess.”

“I’m glad we got that figured out. Now get out of here; I want to go back to sleep.”

Jacob stands up and drags Stiles off the bed by his foot. Stiles spills to the floor and lets Jacob help him get upright. “Thanks. Sorry for disturbing you.”

“Don’t worry about it.” Jacob claps him on the shoulder. “I expect to hear all about it tomorrow.”

“Deal.”

Stiles lets himself be ushered from the room and returns to his own space. Slowly, he empties his bag and puts all his books away. Then, simply wanting to kill time, he tidies everything else up. The piles of dirty clothes finally go into his hamper, and he makes his bed as well. He reorganizes his shelves and clears the top of his desk of all the miscellaneous junk that’s accumulated over the months. He also vacuums, though he receives a very disgruntled text from Jacob telling him to knock the noise the fuck off.

He finishes up quickly and stows the vacuum, looking around his now practically gleaming room with his hands on his hips, feeling impressed with himself. Unfortunately, it hasn’t killed as much time as he would like.

Stiles can’t bear the idea of staying inside, though, so he transfers his wallet and keys from his backpack to his pocket and sets off on a walk. He stuffs a pair of earbuds in and turns the volume up until the bass practically makes his head pulse. He wanders around campus aimlessly for about an hour and then finds a bench in a nearby park, deep green from the recent rain. Stiles pulls up a book on his phone and lies down, holding the screen up before his face, his eyes flicking across the tiny letters.

At dinnertime, he rolls back to his feet and walks over to the dining hall. He finds that his friends have already chosen a table, and he claims a seat between Jacob and Sarah. Sarah looks a little strained and pale. The full moon is tomorrow night, Stiles realizes. Luckily Sarah has never seemed to have any issues with her control, so Stiles hasn’t had to confront her about it.

When he comes back with food, Sarah elbows him in the ribs and gives him a knowing smirk, and, astonished, Stiles turns to glare at Jacob. “You told!”

Jacob shrugs, not looking terribly apologetic. “It was too juicy to pass up.”

“I hate you.”

Jacob simply cackles, and Stiles ignores him for the rest of the night. They drop their dishes on the conveyor and head out into the falling night. Stiles checks his phone as he jumps down the last step and sees that it’s nearly time to meet Dean. “I’ll see you guys tonight,” he says, and the others wave goodbye.

He heads up the street in the opposite direction as his friends and weaves his way through the city until he reaches the edge of campus. Sullivan’s Bar sits on the corner, a squashed brick building with windows full of green, neon lights between two glass and steel business complexes.

Stiles stops at the end of the street, nerves churning in his stomach like a thousand insects clawing up through the dirt. He checks the time again, and the clock reads a minute to eight. He waits until the minute turns before he starts walking again. A bell rings when he pushes the door open and steps into the well air-conditioned room. The host glances up from his phone and nods at Stiles, unconcerned by his apparent youth. Stiles looks around the bar, stuffing his hands in his pockets and pulling them out again to clasp them in front of him or rub them up and down his pants.

He spots Dean sitting at a round table in the corner with the tall, long-haired man. He notices Stiles almost instantly and raises a hand in greeting, a broad smile breaking out on his face. Stiles gives him a strange hand-jerk wave in reply and crosses the floor. He slides into the last empty chair, smiling and shoving his hand through his hair. “Hi.”

“Hey, Stiles!” Dean’s voice is bright. “I want you to meet my brother, Sam.”

“Hey.” Sam stretches a hand across the table, and his palm is rough and covered in callouses. His smile is the sincerest Stiles has ever seen.

He struggles to figure out how to start a conversation. For all his incessant talk, he’s never been terribly good at talking to strangers. “What was the job?” Stiles asks finally. A waitress swings by and deposits a pitcher of amber liquid and three glasses on the table. Stiles nods at her in thanks.

Dean leans forward and begins to pour the drinks. “We were helping an old friend restore a car,” Sam says.

Dean slides a glass across the table to Stiles, and he wraps his hands around it. “What kind of car was it?”

“A ’62 ford truck.”

“Wow, that’s so cool.” Stiles takes a drink, and the beer is of far better quality than anything he’s ever had at a party.

“It took us about a month,” Sam says. “It was a really great job.”

“And how is the article?” Stiles asks, looking at Dean.

“Hm?” Dean glances up from his beer, a white foam moustache on his upper lip. “Oh, the article’s going kind of slowly. I’ve been having trouble choosing an angle.”

“What’s the problem?” Stiles asks, wondering if there are pretzels anywhere.

“It’s like you said at the party. Kevin was a loner. I can’t get a good fix on who he was. I don’t want to portray him in the wrong light.”

“That’s tough,” Stiles agrees.

And we still don’t know much about the suspect. The police won’t release any details to us.”

“What are you going to do?”

Dean shrugs and finally wipes away his foam moustache. “I think I’ll write up the facts only and wait until something else comes to light to do a profile.”

“So, Stiles,” Sam says. “You’re a freshman here?”

Stiles nods, nearly choking on his next sip of beer.

Sam graciously pretends not to notice. “Do you know your major yet?”

Stiles swallows the lump in his throat, and it burns on the way down. “History. Specifically folklore.”

Impressed looks spread across both their faces, and Dean starts to shrug off his jacket. Stiles is instantly captivated, though he tries very hard to keep it from seeming too obvious. Dean wears a light grey, V-neck shirt, and his biceps stretch the fabric in the same way that Derek’s do. He has black tattoos swirling up and down his arms. There are four thick, black bands circling his right forearm, spaced evenly apart, and when he turns his arm over, Stiles sees a tiny pair of delicately etched, stylized angel wings just over the veins on his wrist.

On his other arm, a sleeve marches up from his elbow and disappears into his shirt. Stiles can make out the edges of a bunch of swirling symbols that he doesn’t recognize entwined around each other. A few black tips poke up from under his collar.

“I love your tattoos,” Stiles says, his hand twitching as if it wants to reach out and run his fingers along the black lines. “I’ve always wanted to get one.”

“Why haven’t you?” Dean hangs his jacket off the back of his chair, and Stiles watches the way his muscles move.

Stiles shrugs. “I don’t know. I can’t quite pinpoint what image I want.”

“What’s important to you?” Dean asks.

Stiles leans back and thinks. What is important to him? The Pack, obviously, but he’s not about to get Scott’s dumb upper arm tattoo. “Maybe I would get a wolf paw print,” he says, warming to the idea as he speaks it.

“That sounds cool,” Sam says, flashing that perfect, sincere smile of his. “Where would you get it?”

“My shoulder maybe. Or just below the inside of my elbow.”

“You should do the inside of your elbow,” Dean suggests. He glances around briefly and waves a waitress over, asking her if she’ll bring them some pretzels or something. “People don’t do that as often, so it will be more unique.”

Stiles looks at the inside of his arm and pictures the tattoo there, the tips of the toes pointing towards his wrist, liking what he sees. “Where would I go, though?” he asks, feeling a little dismayed. “Aren’t some tattoo parlors super sketchy?”

“That’s true. You have to be careful.” Dean rubs at his chin. “I’ll look around for you. I know the markers of a good parlor. When I find one, I’ll let you know.”

A massive grin splits across Stiles’ face. “That would be great!”

Their bowl of pretzels arrives and immediately, Dean’s hand descends into it, his fingers deftly popping them into a mouth one by one. It reminds Stiles a little of Scott. He also sees a smattering of thin scars on Dean’s knuckles and the backs of his hands, and when he glances over at Sam, he sees them there too. “Are these scars from your mechanic jobs?” he asks.

Dean and Sam both look at him with surprise and then glance down their hands. “Yeah,” Sam says, the faintest hesitation in his voice. “Most people don’t notice them.”

“I have ADHD, so I tend to notice a lot of weird things,” Stiles says, laughing awkwardly. He leaves off the part where he learned to notice everything so that the small details don’t get him and the Pack killed. He changes the subject. “Where are you guys from?”

“Lawrence, Kansas, originally,” Sam answers, because Dean currently has ten pretzels stuffed in his cheeks. “But we move around a lot.”

“Why?” Stiles asks, intrigued.

“We go wherever there are jobs,” Sam says.

Dean finally swallows. “And we never really liked staying in one place.”

“What about you?” Sam asks.

Stiles pulls the bowl of pretzels towards him, ignoring Dean’s betrayed and scandalized look. “Beacon Hills, California.” The pretzels are slightly stale and very salty, so he pushes them back towards Dean.

“Never heard of it,” Sam says, shaking his head slightly.

“It’s on the smaller side,” Stiles explains.

“Chicago is a long way from California,” Dean points out. “Why such a big move?”

Stiles shrugs. “I just…needed to get away.”

“I get that,” Sam says, sounding a little bitter, and Dean gives him a look that says something Stiles can’t quite pinpoint. He decides not to ask, figuring it to be personal. He stares down into his glass, running his finger through the condensation collected around the sides.

“I actually graduated early,” he continues. “I had all my credits done, so I figured, why not get out early?”

“Did you have to leave all your friends behind?”

“Yeah, that part was hard, but they’re all really supportive.”

“You’ll see them this summer, won’t you?” Dean asks.

Stiles brightens at the thought. “Yeah! I’m looking forward to it!”

His phone starts buzzing in his pocket. Puzzled, Stiles pulls it out and sees Jacob’s number on the screen. He looks up at Sam and Dean apologetically. “Sorry, give me one second.”

They nod for him to go ahead, and Stiles presses the green ‘Answer’ button. “Jacob, hey, can I call you back, I’m–”

“Stiles, I need you to get to the dorm right now,” Jacob’s panicked voice interrupts him. “Sarah is freaking out, and I don’t know what to do.”

Sties spine turns to ice, and he almost falls from his chair. “I’ll be right there. Try to keep her calm.”

He hangs up before Jacob can respond and stuffs his phone in his pocket. “I’m sorry, I have to go. One of my friends is in trouble,” he explains as he stands up, patting his jeans to make sure he still has his wallets and keys.

“Do you need any help?” Sam asks, sounding concerned.

Stiles quickly shakes his head. He doesn’t need a bunch of humans in the room while he’s trying to calm a moon-stricken werewolf. “No, I can handle it. Thanks for the drink. I’ll text you.”

He bolts from the restaurant, and as soon as his feet hit the pavement, he starts to sprint and doesn’t stop until he reaches his dorm building. He pelts up the stairs, skidding around the corners. Jacob stands outside Sarah’s door, looking lost. He lifts both his hands and shrugs when he sees Stiles. “She kicked me out.”

“Stay here,” Stiles orders. He carefully eases the door open and slides into the room.

Sarah is curled up on her bed, fists clenched into balls, though Stiles can still see the edges of her dark claws, and her hair is wild. Her head snaps up when she hears Stiles’ footsteps, and she bares her fangs, eyes glowing blue.

* * *

 

Gus’s hand radiates heat even through her jacket as he rests it on the small of her back and leads her down the stairs. His car sits in her driveway, a bright red, two-door sports car with black accent marks. “Wow,” Melissa says “How do you afford that car on a teacher’s salary?”

Instantly, she regrets the question – great way to start a first date, Melissa – but he laughs it off, the sound low and gruff like his voice. “I inherited some money from my parents,” he explains.

“What kind of car is it?” she asks, unsure if its one of those really common brands that she’s supposed to know but doesn’t.

“A Jaguar F-type,” he says.

That means nothing to her. “It’s very cool.”

“I think so.” He opens the passenger door for her, and she slides into the black leather seat, the fabric already warmed by the sun. Melissa settles her clutch on her knees as Gus shuts the door and walks around the front of the car to his side.

The car purrs to life when he turns the key, humming beneath her. “I thought we would go to Giovanni’s,” he says.

Her stomach rumbles. “That sounds fantastic.”

They pull out of the driveway, the car moving more smoothly than any other Melissa has ever been in. Gus drives with one hand on the wheel and the other elbow resting on the ledge of his window. Melissa switches between staring at the passing scenery and staring at her hands, because she can’t remember what she’s supposed to do. It’s been a long time since she’s dated.

“You’ll have to forgive me,” Gus says, guiding the car around a curve. “I haven’t been on a date in a while, so I’m a little rusty.”

“I’m in the same boat,” Melissa laughs, relieved. “We can be awkward together.”

Gus turns to smile at her briefly and looks back at the road. The lights of Beacon Hills’ small downtown pop up before them, and they get lucky, finding a parking spot right in front of the restaurant. Giovanni’s is an upscale, Italian restaurant. An iron railing encloses the outdoor seating patio, and a long string of white lights circles around the edges. The letters on the sign curl in elegant cursive, thick, black lines enclosed by red. The front wall of the restaurant is all windows, and a warm glow spills out, staining the sidewalk.

Gus turns his car off, and Melissa opens her door, climbing awkwardly out of the low seat. Gus offers her his arm, and she slips her hand through his elbow. The hostess greets them as they enter, and Gus requests a table for two. She checks her tablet, fingers moving rapidly, and motions for them to follow her. They weave through the wooden tables to the back of the restaurant, and the hostess sets two menus down on a booth table with high, red-backed seats.

Melissa sits down, setting her clutch beside the wall, and smooths her napkin across her nap. Gus unbuttons his jacket and folds it neatly beside him. A waiter with carefully slicked, black hair comes by and fills their water glasses from a large pitcher. He pulls a pad and pencil from his pocket. “Can I get you anything to drink?”

“Cabernet Sauvignon, please,” Gus says.

“Oh, white wine,” Melissa requests.

“What kind?” the waiter prods politely.

“Uh, Pinot Grigio? That’s a thing, right?”

“Yes.” The waiter scribbles on his pad. “I’ll get those drinks in for you right away.”

Melissa glances over at Gus as the waiter leaves. Their eyes meet, and she quickly looks back down at her hands. “You don’t have to be nervous,” Gus promises, smiling. “I promise I won’t bite or turn into smoke.”

Melissa really likes the sound of his voice. She’s always had a thing for accents. She tucks a wayward curl behind her ear. “Right. I guess we should start this date.”

Gus laughs. It’s a quiet, low sound. “I think that’s usually what happens at this point.”

“So, where are you from?” That seems like a good place to start.

“Scotland,” Gus answers. “My mother and I moved to the States when I was in my teens.”

“What about your father?”

“He was never in the picture.”

The waiter arrives with their drinks, saving Melissa from her embarrassment. Immediately, she takes a sip of her wine, and then she opens her menu and stares down at it, skimming the list of pasta and different meat dishes.

“Have you ever been back?” she asks.

“No. There’s nothing there for me. I think I’ll get the filet mignon. Have you decided yet?”

“The chicken fettuccine alfredo sounds good.”

“You’re going to have to share,” Gus warns, smiling a little, and Melissa can’t help but grin back. She’s noticed that Gus has a slight resting angry face, but his smile breaks the clouds and captivates her. “Where are you from originally?”

“Here,” Melissa says. “Born and raised.”

“You never wanted to leave?” Gus sounds like he doesn’t quite understand the concept.

“Nope.” Melissa shrugs. “I’ve always liked it here, and when Scott was born, I decided it would be a great town to raise him in. I’ve got a great job, too, so why leave?”

“Are your parents here?”

“They actually moved away when I graduated high school,” Melissa answers, laughing. “They live in Seattle now.”

“Do they visit much?”

“Twice a year, maybe. And you? Do you see your mother often?”

“No. I haven’t seen her in years.”

“Do you mind if I ask why?” Melissa takes another sip of wine. “You don’t have to answer, if you don’t want to.”

“We never got along,” Gus says, running his finger around the rim of his glass. “As soon as I was old enough, we went our separate ways.”

The waiter comes back and offers them a smile. “Ready to order?”

They nod and tell him what they want, watching as his pen scratches across the pad. Gus gazes across the table at her, the corner of his mouth quirked up. Melissa blushes when she notices. “What?” she asks.

“Nothing. You’re just beautiful.”

Melissa ducks her head and tucks her hair behind her ear. “I – thank you.”

“When was the last time you dated?” Gus asks. “I know that’s a first date violation, but I have to admit, I’m curious. A beautiful woman like you should have to fend off suitors from all directions.”

“You’re so cliché,” Melissa giggles, and Gus assumes a look of hurt, clapping one hand to his heart.

“Me? Cliché? Never.”

Melissa rolls her eyes. “If you must now, working and raising a son don’t leave much time for a personal life.”

A basket of bread appears in front of them seemingly out of nowhere, and Melissa takes a piece, turning it over and over in her fingers.

“You work at the hospital?” Gus says. He selects an end piece and picks up his knife, deftly slathering butter across its face.

“As a nurse,” Melissa answers. “My schedule is crazy and can change at the drop of a hat.”

“I’m glad nothing came up tonight.”

“Don’t worry,” she promises. “If something had, I would have made someone else take care of it.”

Gus smiles again, and wipes his fingers on his napkin. The white cloth is stark against his black suit. “Tell me, are you going to actually eat that piece of of bread, or just hold it in your hand for the rest of the night?”

Melissa jumps and looks down, and sure enough, she is still holding onto the slice of baguette. Flustered, she sticks the whole thing in her mouth, realizing quickly that it’s too much to chew all at once. Her cheeks puff out, and she holds on hand over her lips, terrified that she’ll accidentally flash Gus the beautiful sight of half-chewed food.

“That wasn’t exactly what I meant,” Gus says when she’s swallowed, grinning to show that he’s joking.

Melissa drops her face into her hands to hide her blistering cheeks. “I’m so bad at this.”

“I don’t think anyone’s good at first dates,” Gus reassures her.

She peeks at him through her fingers. “You promise I’m not making a total fool of myself?”

“Just a slight fool of yourself,” he says, reaching out to pull one of her hands away. He doesn’t let go when their hands reach the table, and his palm is warm, almost hot. Melissa blushes again, though this time, it’s not from embarrassment.

Their food arrives then, and Gus lets go of her hand so she can arrange her silverware. Her bowl is wide and steaming, the creamy scent of cheese wafting up off of it. Gus’s steak glistens redly, sitting in a pool of its own juices, and guarded by fluffy mashed potatoes.

“Would either of you like another drink?” the waiter asks.

“No, thank you,” Melissa says, and Gus nods in agreement. “I’m still working on mine.”

She digs in as soon as the waiter is gone, and Gus picks up a large, serrated knife. It parts the flesh of his steak easily. The fettuccine alfredo is as delicious as it always is. The noodles are just a little chewy, and the sauce is thick and smooth against her tongue. The pieces of chicken are tender and juicy, seasoned to perfection.

“May I?” Gus’s fork hovers over her food.

“Only if I can try a piece of your filet mignon.”

“Deal.” He cuts off a corner and deposits it in her bowl, so she lets him twirl some pasta around his fork and take it away.

She pops the meat into her mouth. It tears easily beneath her teeth, boldly seasoned, though it’s a little too rare for her taste.

“Maybe I should have gotten that instead,” Gus says, wiping a drop of sauce from his lip with his thumb.

Melissa pulls her plate closer to her. “Mine.”

The meal passes smoothly, and Melissa realizes with a start that this is the most fun she’s had in a long time. She’s a cynic, always expecting that first dates will be unavoidably awkward, but Gus is charming and funny without seeming to try, and he actually listens to her when she talks.

Their bill comes too soon, and Gus immediately pulls out his wallet. The look he gives her silences any protest before the thought can be formed, so she lets him pay. Honestly, she can’t really afford Giovanni’s

“Would you like to go anywhere after this?” Gus asks. He sticks a black credit card into the bill holder and props it up at the end of the table.

“Normally, I’d say ice cream,” Melissa groans, leaning against the back of the booth and resting her hands on her stomach. “But I’m so stuffed right now that I think I might blow.”

“I take it a walk in the park is out, too?”

Melissa nods. “Definitely.”

“Alright. Then next time, we’ll do ice cream and a walk.” He says it casually, but Melissa’s heart nearly stops. She bolts upright, upsetting the contents of her stomach.

“You want to go out again?”

He looks at her, puzzled. “Of course. Don’t you?”

“Yes!” she blurts before he can get the wrong impression. “I do!”

“Then it’s settled.” He accepts the returned bill from the waiter and scrawls his signature across the receipt. They stand up together, and Gus takes her hand as they walk towards the door. She tightens her fingers around his, liking the way it feels.

Gus drives her home, letting her rifle through his music collection, though she’s unimpressed by his choices. “All you have is classical music!” she protests.

He shrugs. “I like it.”

“I’m going to broaden your horizons,” she promises. “Prepare for your musical education and conversion.”

They pull into the driveway of her house, and Gus walks her up to the front door. They pause on the porch. He doesn’t let go of her hand. Slowly, Gus leans in, and Melissa meets him halfway, his hand slipping into the small of her back so he can pull her closer and deepen the kiss. His stubble is scratchy against her cheek, but his lips are soft. Melissa had forgotten how nice it felt to get kissed.

Scott’s panicked shout breaks into the moment. “Mom – OH GOD WHY? MY EYES!”

The door slams shut, and Melissa pulls away. “I guess that’s my cue.”

“I’ll be very surprised if I see him in class on Monday,” Gus laughs.

“Sorry,” she says. “We’ll work out a signal so that doesn’t happen again.”

“Alright.” He gives her one last kiss on the cheek. “I’ll call you tomorrow, okay?”

“Okay.” Melissa waves goodbye and watches him return to his car and drive off before heading inside and closing the door.


	4. As the Dust Settles

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys, here's a kind of interim chapter before the action gets started again! And thank you all so much for all the kudos and comments! Nearly 100 kudos - that's so cool! You guys are the best. Now, unfortunately, this might be the last chapter I post until December. NaNoWriMo starts November 1st, so I'm going to be pretty busy with that. 
> 
> Alright, please enjoy this short chapter!

Chapter Four: 

As the Dust Settles

“Sarah,” Stiles says in his calm, soothing voice, moving carefully across the floor. “Sarah, I need you to take a deep breath.” This is second nature to him. He’s lost track of how many moons he’s spent talking down a snarling Beta, and in Scott’s early days, Stiles spent every full moon with him. He’s found that a low, level voice works best, and he likes to repeat their names a lot, to remind them who they are.

“Get out,” Sarah gasps.

“I’m not going anywhere,” Stiles promises. “But you need to take a deep breath.”

“I’m dangerous. I’ll hurt you.” Sarah squeezes her bright blue eyes shut, her fangs distorting her words just a little.

Stiles reaches the bed and starts to move around the side of it. He tries to keep his steps as smooth as possible to avoid any jerky movements that might startle Sarah. “No, you won’t. I know you, Sarah. You won’t hurt me.”

“You don’t know me!” she sobs. “You don’t know what I am!”

“Yes, I do. I’ve known since we first met.”

Sarah’s eyes flash open as he crouches down beside the bed so his face is level with hers. That blue glow bores into him. It’s so much like Derek’s, but it doesn’t have the same calm, depthless quality. Stiles loves Derek’s blue eyes. “You know? How?”

“I’m part of a Pack in Beacon Hills,” Stiles explains.

“How come you never said anything?” Sarah’s voice is starting to lose its manic edge.

“I was trying to keep my two lives separate. I’m sorry, Sarah.” Stiles reaches out and takes one of her hands, gently pulling it out of its rigid lock on her arm. Her claws dig into her palm, but they don’t break the skin, so he ignores them.

“But you’re human,” Sarah says, puzzled.

“Yeah, well, Beacon Hills is weird.” He laughs a little.

As Sarah sits up, the glow in her eyes fades, and Stiles feels her claws recede. He keeps hold of her hand, though, and gives her a smile. “Better?”

She tucks a curl behind her ear. “Yeah, thanks.”

Stiles stands up from his painful crouch and moves to the bed. “What happened, Sarah? You’ve never had problems with control before.”

“I think it’s the stress of finals. It’s got me more frazzled than usual.”

“Do you want me to stay with you for the rest of the night?” Stiles asks.

Sarah shakes her head. “No, I’ll be alright. Thank you, Stiles.”

Stiles leans in and gently kisses her forehead. “Text me if you need anything, okay?”

“Okay.”

Sarah gives him a weak smile as he stands. When Stiles lets himself out, Jacob is leaning up against the wall. He jumps up as soon as he sees Stiles. “What happened? Is she okay?”

“She’s fine now,” Stiles says, rubbing tiredly at his face. “She was just having a bad panic attack about finals.”

“Oh. I’m sorry I interrupted your date.”

“You did the right thing,” Stiles assures him.

Jacob follows Stiles into his room, a mischievous smile coming over his lips. “So how was it?”

Stiles pulls off his shoes and chucks them into a corner. “It was pretty good.”

“Really? That’s all I get?” Jacob’s mouth drops open in disbelief, and he shakes his head at Stiles.

“Sorry, I’m really tired. I’ll tell you all about it in the morning, alright?”

Jacob rolls his eyes. “Whatever.”

Stiles falls onto his bed as Jacob leaves, breathing a sigh of relief. His phone buzzes, and he fumbles it out of his pocket, nearly dropping it on his face as he lifts it up to read the notification. It’s a message from Dean, asking if his friend is okay. Stiles sends a quick reply and tells him the same thing he told Jacob.

* * *

 

Scott lies in his bed for a long time on Tuesday morning. He’s still mortified that he walked in on his mom and Dr. Crowley kissing. He fled upstairs immediately after, so he wouldn’t have to talk to Melissa about it, and now he’s using his super wolf hearing to make sure she’s out of the house before he leaves his room.

He gets up when he hears the front door shut, throwing on a pair of jeans and his leather jacket. He drives to school slowly for once, going three under the speed limit, much to the chagrin of the car behind him. He grins when he realizes it’s Lydia and slows down even more.

She slams her door as she gets out in the parking lot and stomps over to him, punching him in the shoulder as hard as she can. It actually hurts quite a lot, and Scott rubs at the sore spot. “What are you, 80?” Lydia demands.

“I don’t think I’d be riding a bike if I were 80,” Scott says.

This earns him a glare. “You know what I mean. Why were you driving so slow?”

They start walking up the stairs to the front door. “I accidentally interrupted my mom and Dr. Crowley kissing,” Scott explains, wincing. He holds the door open for Lydia.

“Ouch.” Most of Lydia’s voice sounds sympathetic, but underneath that is a hint of amusement.

“Yeah,” Scott agrees. “So I’m going to use you as a shield again today.”

“You do realize that you’re several inches taller than me.”

“I’ll make it work.”

Scott ducks behind Lydia as they enter the AP Chemistry class, but Scott is relieved to see that Dr. Crowley isn’t in the room yet. He sits behind Lydia again, and she twists to look at him. “Dr. Crowley is never late,” she says. “He didn’t…spend the night, did he?”

“God, no!” Scott yelps and shudders at the thought.

Dr. Crowley sweeps through the door moments before the bell rings, looking annoyed. His black suit isn’t as neatly pressed as it usually is, and under his usual sulfur smell, Scott catches a metallic note of blood. He leans forward to whisper in Lydia’s ear. “He smells like blood.”

“What? Why?”

Dr. Crowley slams his bag down on his desk before Scott can answer. “You can all study on your own today. I have other matters to attend to.”

He leaves the classroom just as quickly as he came in.

Lydia spins in her chair so she can look at Scott. “Well, that was weird.”

“Definitely weird,” Scott agrees.

“You don’t think it has anything to do with the date last night?”

Scott shakes his head. “They looked to be having a grand old time when I walked in on them.”

* * *

 

Crowley disappears as soon as he leaves the classroom and reappears in a small forest grove. Three demons wait for him, two female and one male, all dressed in dark suits. “What?” Crowley snaps. One of them blood-called him this morning, demanding that he meet with them immediately.

The blonde woman steps forward. “My lord, we heard some disturbing rumors.” She hesitates as Crowley’s eyes narrow in warning. “Is it true you went on a date with a human woman?”

“What does it matter?” Crowley growls. Sometimes, he wishes he’d never become the King of Hell, just so people would stop questioning his every action.

“We’re concerned it’s not behavior befitting the King of Hell. Unless of course,” she adds quickly when Crowley’s silver angel blade drops out of his sleeve and into his hand, “you have some plan to get her soul that we don’t know about.”

“No. No plan,” Crowley says icily.

The demons very obviously try to stifle their shocked gasps. “But why?” the man asks.

“Are you questioning me?” Crowley says.

The demon swallows but seems to grow a spine. “I’m sorry, sir. She’s a human woman. It’s undignified.”

“Undignified?” Crowley bellows. He’s getting tired of this. “Undignified?”

The demons back off, casting their eyes to the ground and away from his red hot fury. Crowley has fulfilled his quota of mercy for the month. He used it all up when he graded his last test. Most of his students should have failed, but he relented and gave them Ds instead.

He walks towards the demons, his face transformed into a deceptively calm mask. The three lackeys shuffle their feet and glance at each other, very aware that Crowley’s blade is still in his hand. Let their fear grow. Let these sniveling, spineless, worthless pieces of demon scum serve as examples for the rest of Hell as to what happens when you question the King.

Crowley’s arm snaps up, and he buries the silver blade into the chest of the most vocal demon. He stares right into the bright, white light that bursts out of her eyes and open mouth. He rips the knife free in a spray of blood, and the tails of his coat flap as he spins and cuts the man’s throat. The final demon starts to back away, her face covered in droplets of her companion’s blood.

“Sir,” she begins.

Crowley doesn’t let her finish. He wraps one hand around the back of her neck and holds her still so she can stare into his eyes as he slowly slides the angel blade between her ribs. The bursts of light leave black spots dancing on his vision.

He wipes the blood off on her jacket, and then the knife disappears back up his sleeve. He checks his watch. His first period ends in fifteen minutes, but he can’t return quite yet. Undoubtedly, Scott McCall smelled the blood from the call when Crowley first walked into the room. He can’t return smelling of it even more strongly and risk raising the boy’s suspicions. Crowley has heard about what Scott McCall and his Pack have done to creatures they deem dark.

He decides to walk back to the school rather than teleport. As he sets off, his thoughts once again turn to Melissa McCall. Crowley has never felt or experienced anything like this before. These revolving, cyclical thoughts, all focused on one person in a positive way without even a hint of hate, deals, or murder. He sees Melissa McCall’s face when he closes his eyes. He can still smell the shampoo she uses. When he was with her last night, he forgot about ruling Hell and keeping one eye turned to look for backstabbers. He even forgot that he was a demon and not a man.

All of which is foolish, of course. More likely than not, Melissa McCall is going to get him killed. If he were smart, he would call the whole thing off. But he won’t. Because he really wants to see Melissa McCall again.

* * *

 “There’s a bus that will get us close to Bobby’s. If we leave now, we can catch it,” Sam says, hunched over his computer. His legs don’t fit under the slightly-smaller-than-usual table, so he has to sit with his knees cocked awkwardly.

“Actually, I was thinking we might stay here a while,” Dean says.

Sam looks up in surprise; Dean is usually gung-ho about skipping town as soon as a job is done. Now, Dean sits cross-legged on his bed, the parts of his gun spread out before him for cleaning, and half of his clothes still lie on the floor.

“What?” Sam asks. “Why?”

Dean shrugs. “We haven’t had a vacation in a while. Ever, maybe. I don’t remember us ever taking a vacation, do you?”

“I don’t,” Sam agrees. He grins to himself. He knows what this is really about. Dean wants to see more of that kid, Stiles. He shakes his head admonishingly; time to have a little fun. “What would Cas think?”

“What would Cas think about what?” Dean asks, cocking an eyebrow.

“About you seeing another man.”

Dean’s mouth drops open, and his eyes bug out. “What – no – I – that’s not – Cas and I–! I don’t like Cas like that! He’s just a friend!”

“Yeah, sure,” Sam says, smirking. “A friend with whom you share a most profound bond.”

Speechless, Dean flings his cleaning rag at Sam’s head, but it flutters ineffectually to the ground. Sam closes his computer as he laughs. He and Bobby have a bet going over when (or if) Dean and Cas will get together. Bobby thinks they’ll keep dancing around each other until one of them dies, but Sam has more confidence in his brother. They’ll get together eventually. They might just need a bit of a push.

“We can stay awhile,” Sam relents. He doesn’t bother wiping the smirk from his face.

“Awesome.”

“You’ll probably go stir-crazy after two days,” Sam warns. He’s seen how Dean gets when he’s inactive, and it’s not pretty.

“So we’ll do things. Go to museums or whatever.”

“You hate museums,” Sam points out.

Dean glares at him. “Then we’ll go to the movies.”

“You can invite Stiles, if you want.” Sam wiggles his eyebrows suggestively, and Dean looks around for something else to throw.


	5. Stiles Gets a Tattoo

Chapter Five:

Stiles Gets a Tattoo 

As the next few days pass, Stiles can’t get the idea of a tattoo out of his head. He draws countless wolf paw designs on scraps of paper, on his notes, even on his skin. He draws big prints, small prints, ornate, stylized designs, and simple outlines. Eventually, he decides on a plain, filled-in design about an inch in length. He grins when he holds the design against his forearm.

Stiles snaps a picture of the drawing and sends it to Dean. A few minutes later, his phone rings, startling him out of his chair. Stiles hits the ground and bounces back up again, pawing for his phone. “Hello?”

“Dude, I just got your message,” Dean says. “It looks awesome.”

“Thanks. I’ve been playing around with it for a few days.” Stiles sits back down, making sure his chair is actually beneath him before he fully commits to the action.

“I found a good parlor.” Dean sounds like he’s eating something. “I could go with you, if you want.”

“What, now?” Stiles asks.

“Why not? Are you busy?”

“No, but…” Stiles doesn’t know what comes after the but. “Alright. Text me the address. I’ll meet you there.”

“Great. See you in a bit.”

Dean hangs up, and then Stiles’ phone dings. The address of the parlor is only a fifteen-minute drive from his dorm. Stiles grabs his keys and his jacket and hurries out of the building, checking ten different times to make sure his design is still in his pocket. A long, steep hill leads down to the parking lot, and of course, Stiles’ old, battered, blue Jeep is in the spot furthest from him.

He has to yank sharply on the door to get it to open, and even then, it squeals in protest. There’s a small puddle of water on his dash from the leaky windshield. Stiles slams the door shut, and his tongue pokes out as he tries to start the car. The engine whines and grinds and turns over. Stiles bangs his hand against the steering wheel and tries again. Begrudgingly, the Jeep roars to life.

He coaxes the car out of the parking lot and onto the city streets, the gears making a grinding sound every time he shifts from first to second. The GPS on his phone leads him to the tattoo parlor, and he only gets lost once, which is a new record. The Chicago streets are more confusing than his feelings for Derek.

He pulls into the tiny parking lot of the Blue Cat Tattoo Parlor. A neon blue cat flashes in the window, and Stiles sends a Snapchat of the building to Scott. He would send the picture to Derek, too, but Derek is lame and doesn’t have a Snapchat. Derek gives him his Death Glare™ whenever Stiles suggests he get the app.

Stiles shuts off the Jeep, and it takes him a full minute to convince the door to lock behind him. He jogs across the parking lot and takes a deep breath before entering the tattoo parlor. Dean waits inside, slouched in a chair and reading a home ec magazine about pie. He glances up when the bell above the door rings, and his face breaks into a smile.

“Stiles!” Dean drops the magazine on the table beside him and stands up. His eyes look impossibly green in the light coming off the overhead light.

“Hey,” Stiles says, hands stuffed in his pockets.

A man with thick tattoo sleeves on both arms comes out from a back room and steps up to the counter. “Can I help you?”

“Uh…” Stiles’ mind blanks. He forgets what he’s doing there.

Dean comes to his rescue. “Hi.” He gives the man a dashing smile. “My friend here wants to get a tattoo. I called earlier, and the guy said you take walk-ins.”

“Sure.” The man looks over at Stiles. “You need help with a design?”

Stiles’ mind finally snaps back into focus. “No. No. I’ve got one already.” He pulls the scrap of paper from his pocket and hands it to the man who nods appreciatively.

“Looks good. My name’s Conrad. Follow me to the back.” Conrad turns around, and Dean and Stiles step around the counter to follow him. “So where do you want it?” Conrad asks as they walk.

“The inside of my left forearm?” Stiles says. “Just under the elbow.”

“That’s going to hurt a fair bit,” Conrad warns. They stop beside a large, black chair with a metal table beside it. He stoops and opens one of the cabinets, pulling out a small tray and a needle gun.

Stiles thinks about the long scar on his ribs which took two months to heal. He thinks about all the cuts, bruises, and contusions he has accumulated over the years, all the broken bones. He thinks about how the Nogitsune stole his body and tried to tear him apart.

“I think I can handle it,” he says.

“Then take a seat.”

Stiles wriggles into the leather chair, his stomach turning into a bundle of nerves. He lets out a shaky breath as Dean plops into a nearby stool, grinning over at him. Conrad transfers the wolf print design from the paper to Stiles’ arm. Stiles shivers when Conrad tests the needle gun.

“Does it make me lame if I ask you to hold my hand?” Stiles asks Dean.

“Not at all,” Dean says and stretches out a hand to Stiles. His jacket sleeve pulls back to reveal two of the four bands on his forearm.

“Also, document this and send it to my friend, Scott.” Stiles fumbles his phone from his pocket with his free hand and tosses it to Dean.

“I’m going to get started now, okay?” Conrad says. “Keep still.”

“Okay, I’m just going to keep talking to my friend here and not look at what you’re doing,” Stiles says, eyes locked on Dean’s pretty face.

“Smile,” Dean says, pointing the phone at Stiles. Stiles grins at him, and the needle digs into his skin just as Dean takes the photo. Stiles’ face contorts, and Dean laughs, showing Stiles the photo and his gruesome face.

“Don’t send that,” Stiles begs.

Dean giggles. “Too late.”

The pinching sensation on his arm grows stronger, and Stiles takes a long, deep breath. He’s faced down every nasty supernatural thing under the sun. He can handle this, too.

“What do those four bands mean?” Stiles asks, nodding at Dean’s arm.

Dean glances down. “Oh, they represent people I’ve lost.”

Four bands. Four people. Stiles isn’t sure if he’s supposed to ask who, but Dean is already rolling up his sleeve. He points to each band in turn. “My mom. My dad. Our family friend, Ellen, and her daughter, Jo.”

“Wow, I’m sorry.” Stiles doesn’t know what he would do if he lost his dad. “I lost my mom when I was young.”

“It’s rough, isn’t it?”

Stiles nods.

“So why a wolf print?” Dean asks. He gets up and moves around Stiles’ chair to take a picture of Conrad at work. “I didn’t think there were any wolves in California.”

Stiles hesitates. He can’t just say because two of my best friends are werewolves, and I’m in their Pack. “They’re my favorite animal.”

“Dude, it’s going to look so awesome.” Dean grins again.

 

Forty-five minutes later, Conrad leans back and puts the needle gun down. “Alright, all done.”

Stiles looks down at his arm, and a smile spreads across his face. The skin around the tattoo is raw and red, but the tattoo itself is black and bold and perfect. Dean pokes his tongue out as he leans in to take a picture of it. “Keep it clean and keep it out of the sun,” Conrad says. “I’ll ring you up at the counter.”

Stiles stands up carefully to make sure he doesn’t fall over. His arm throbs a little bit as he follows Dean through the parlor. Once they’re at the front counter, Conrad types briefly on his tablet. “Your total is $50.”

Stiles digs his wallet out and hands the tattoo artist his credit card. Dean gives him his phone back. “Do you want a receipt?” Conrad asks.

“No, thanks.” Stiles takes his credit card back. “Post-tattoo selfie?” he says to Dean.

“You know it!” Dean and Stiles crowd together, and Stiles holds up his phone, making sure his tattoo is in the shot. They grin up at the camera, and Stiles sends the Snapchat to Scott. Then they wave goodbye to Conrad and leave the tattoo parlor. Stiles’ Jeep is the only car in the parking lot.

“Do you need a ride?” Stiles asks.

“Actually, that would be great.” Stiles leads Dean over to the Jeep, and Dean raises an eyebrow. “How old is this thing?”

“Older than me. You have to kick your door to get it open.”

Stiles yanks on his own door, and he and Dean climb into the car. It takes him three tries to start the Jeep, and Dean cringes each time. “Ha ha!” he says triumphantly when it finally rumbles to life.

“You should take this thing into the shop,” Dean says, hand braced against the dashboard.

“I have no money.”

Dean looks over at him and raises an eyebrow. “I’m not going to point out that you just spend $50 on a tattoo.”

“That was literally all of my money.” Stiles gives him a sheepish grin.

“Well, in that case. I can work on it for you.” Deal opens the glove box, revealing Stiles’ tool kit. He pulls out the single wrench and roll of duct tape and stares at them, aghast. “Maybe I can even show you a few things.”

“That would be cool,” Stiles says.

Dean directs him through the streets until they arrive at a shitty little motel with cats in most of the windows. Stiles turns to Dean and raises an eyebrow. “You…live in a motel.”

“We’re between apartments,” Dean says. “Thanks for the ride.”

“Sure. Thanks for coming with me. Say hi to Sam for me.”

“Will do.” Dean gives him a two finger salute. “Text me when you want to work on the car.”

“Okay. Bye.”

Stiles watches Dean hop out of the car and jog across the motel’s parking lot. Once Dean disappears into a room with one last wave, Stiles peels away, heading back to his dorm.

* * *

 Derek sits in one of his armchairs with a book in one hand and a cup of coffee by his elbow. He turns the page, the sound loud in his empty house. He hears Scott’s heartbeat coming up the drive, but he doesn’t get up. Scott knows he’s home and won’t bother to knock.

“Derek?” Sure enough, Scott steps into the entrance hall.

“In the living room,” Derek calls.

Scott appears around the corner a moment later, the shoulders of his brown jacket damp with rain. “Training isn’t for another three hours,” Derek says, turning another page.

“I know. I wanted to show you something.”

Derek puts his book down and sits up, one eyebrow cocked. Scott pulls out his phone as he walks over and crouches down beside Derek. “Stiles send me these. He went and got a tattoo.”

Scott shows Derek four photos. The first is an outside shot of a building labelled the Black Cat Tattoo Parlor. The second is of Stiles sitting in a leather chair, a funny grimace of his face. The photo was taken by a third, unseen party. Then there’s a shot of the half finished tattoo, the artist bent over his needle. The final photo is a selfie. Stiles’ head is pressed against an unnaturally pretty blonde man, both of them grinning up at the camera as Stiles shows off his wolf-print tattoo.

Derek feels a twinge in his stomach. “Who’s that?” he asks, pointing at the blonde man.

“Stiles’ new friend, Dean. They met at a party a couple of weeks ago.”

Derek frowns at the photo. He doesn’t like this Dean person. “Well, good for Stiles.” He doesn’t know if he really means it.

Scott picks up on his tone. “Is something wrong?”

Derek turns his head just far enough to glare at Scott out of the corner of his eye. Scott goes a little pale and backs off. “I’ll…see you tonight,” he says, and he tries very hard to walk normally out of the house, but Derek can tell that he really wants to run.

Derek turns back to his book, but he can’t concentrate on the words. He always knew that Stiles would get a tattoo, but he thought that Stiles would ask him to go with. His stomach sinks. But Stiles asked some other guy. Some guy with perfect cheekbones and perfect hair and green, green eyes and a smile that lights up the room. Derek digs out his phone. There’s no message from Stiles telling him about the big event.

Derek’s fingers drum against the arm of his chair, and a ripping sound startles him out of his thoughts. His claws have come out without him realizing it. He sighs. Who is this Dean character? He probably wants something from Stiles. He probably has some kind of nefarious plot. Derek needs to find out what it is.

 

Three hours later, his Betas and Scott show up at his door, and Derek leads them out into the forest. He pulls Scott aside, letting his Betas go on ahead. Tonight is a werewolf training night, so Lydia and Allison are off doing other things, and Cora has, once again, decided that she doesn’t need to show up.

“What’s up?” Scott asks.

“What do you know about this Dean?” The man’s name feels acidic on Derek’s tongue.

Scott shrugs. “Not much. They met at a party. He’s a little older than Stiles. He works with the school paper.”

“No last name?”

“Not that Stiles said. Why? What’s up?”

“I don’t know. I just don’t trust this guy.” Derek looks off into the trees.

Scott reaches out and grabs Derek’s arm, pulling him to a stop. “Hang on, are you…jealous?”

Derek yanks his arm away. “No. Go catch up with the Betas.”

Scott wisely chooses to keep his head and doesn’t press the matter. He jogs away and catches up with Isaac, Erica, and Boyd, leaving Derek to scowl at the dark forest.

They reach a small clearing, and Derek calls a halt. “Close your eyes. Scott and I are going to hide. You’re going to find us.”

The three Betas do as they’re told, and Derek motions for Scott to head in one direction as Derek goes the other way. He lopes into the forest, searching for a suitable hiding spot. He splashes into a stream and walks up it a ways, the cold water bracing on his legs. Maybe he’s overreacting about this Dean person. It’s good that Stiles is making friends. But that rock-like feeling won’t leave his stomach.

Derek finds a dark cave at the top of a hill and hides himself inside. It takes two hours for Erica to find him, and when she finally pops her blonde head into the cave mouth, Derek gives her a frown that sends her scurrying back. “Tow hours? Really?” he says.

“I thought I did pretty well.” Erica’s face falls into a pout.

Derek shakes his head. “No.”

They walk back to the clearing together. Scott, Boyd, and Isaac are already there. “Obviously, we need to work on our tracking more,” Derek says when they’re all standing in a circle. “That was pitiful.”

“Come on,” Scott protests. “It wasn’t too bad.”

“It was pitiful,” Derek repeats bluntly.

Scott shrugs, unable to argue with Derek’s tone.

Derek waves his hands at the Betas, his signal that training is over for the night, and they scatter in an instant, leaving Derek and Scott alone. Scott glances over at Derek, his mouth halfway open, but one look from Derek shuts him up again. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” he says finally and waves goodbye.

Derek watches him go and then pulls his phone out of his pocket. There’s a message from Stiles waiting for him. It’s a picture of him grinning into a mirror and holding up his new wolf-print tattoo. The text reads, “I got a tattoo!!!” and then a bunch of those weird heart-eye-emoji-things.

Derek smirks and texts him back.


	6. Mechanical Rumblings

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for my complete and total lack of knowledge about cars.

Chapter Six

Mechanical Rumblings 

“Scott?” Melissa comes into the kitchen where Scott is munching his way through a box of cereal, threading a hoop through her ear. “I’m going out with Gus tonight, remember? So you’ll have to fend for yourself.”

“No problem, I’m hanging out with Allison and Isaac tonight,” Scott says through a too-full mouth of food. “You have fun.”

This is Melissa’s fifth date with Dr. Crowley, and Scott still isn’t totally comfortable with it. His face turns a blistering shade of red every time he has to go to chemistry class.

“I’ll be home late.” Melissa plants a kiss on his forehead and ruffles his hair just as the doorbell rings. A slight squeak of surprise comes out of her mouth. “That’s him! I’ll see you later, hon.” She scurries from the kitchen, returns two seconds later to snatch her clutch off the counter, and disappears again. Scott listens to the click of her heels as she walks down the hall, and then the door opens. “Gus, hi!”

“Melissa. You look beautiful.” Dr. Crowley’s low, rough voice rumbles through the house.

Melissa laughs as she steps out the door, and it swings shut behind her.

Scott picks up the cereal box and shakes it over his bowl, but nothing other than a cloud of multi-colored dust comes out. He sighs and gets up to throw the box out, and his phone buzzes in his pocket, Isaac’s name on the caller ID. “Where are you?” Isaac’s voice demands as soon as Scott answers. “Movie night is about to start.”

“I had to wait for Dr. Crowley to pick my mom up. I’ll be over in ten minutes.”

“Bring ice cream!” Allison cuts into the conversation.

“Flavor requests?” he asks.

“Chocolate chip cookie dough,” she says.

“And mint chip,” Isaac adds.

“Got it. See you both soon.”

Scott hangs up the phone and roots through his backpack until he finds his keys. He locks the house up behind him and hops on his bike, the engine purring when he turns the key in the ignition. They’re hanging out at Allison’s tonight, and there’s a grocery store right in the middle of Scott’s route. He hurries inside and buys two gallons of ice cream, hanging them on the handlebars when he returns to his bike. They rattle and bump all over the place as he drives through the streets.

He drops the kickstand when he reaches the Argents’ house, and he grabs the ice cream containers before bounding up the steps to the front door. He expects Isaac to hear him coming and let him in, but instead, its Chris Argent who opens the door. “Scott,” he says, leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed.

“Mr. Argent.” They still have a tenuous relationship, though it’s mostly one of mutual respect. In all honesty, Chris Argent scares the living daylights out of Scott.

“Come on in,” Mr. Argent says finally, stepping aside. “Allison and Isaac are in the living room.”

Scott holds up the gallons of ice cream. “Got room in your freezer for these?”

Mr. Argent rolls his eyes, the pale green color flashing in the light. “There should be.”

Scott steps into the large house, and Mr. Argent puts on a dark green jacket. “Are you going out?” Scott asks.

Mr. Argent nods. For once, he’s shaved the grey stubble that always shrouds his cheeks.

“Got a hot date?” Scott says with a smirk.

That earns him a withering scowl. It’s almost as good as Derek’s.

Mr. Argent brushes past Scott and leaves the house, letting Scott kick the door shut behind him. Scott always feels like he’s sprinted ten miles after he talks with Chris Argent; his heart pounds, and his knees feel like jelly, and he has to remind his vision to start working again.

“Scott?” Allison calls.

“One sec!”

“Move your ass, or we’re going to start without you!” Isaac snaps.

Scott takes his time moving to the kitchen fridge. “Did I not bring you ice cream?” He can practically hear Isaac rolling his eyes.

Isaac and Allison have pushed most of the furniture out of the way and heaped all of the blankets and pillows in the house on the floor. There are three pizza boxes and two liters of soda sitting on a glass coffee table, and Scott is surprised to see that they’re unopened. Allison and Isaac are sprawled across the mound of covers, leaning up against the base of the couch. Allison’s hair is bound up in a messy bun, and she wears a pair of pajamas that she stole from Scott. Isaac’s curls bounce across his forehead, a Twizzler hanging from his mouth.

Scott flops down beside Allison, and she rests her head against his chest, one of her legs hooked around one of Isaac’s. “What are we watching?” he asks.

“Back to the Future marathon,” Isaac says. He picks up the remote and points it at the huge TV mounted on the wall where the movie is already queued up and ready to play. Isaac’s phone rings as the flic starts, and he fumbles it from his pocket, checking the message but deciding it doesn’t matter enough to answer right away.

“Who is it?” Allison asks.

“Just Elena,” Isaac says.

Scott lifts his head to look over at him. “Elena?”

“She’s my partner for this math project,” Isaac answers. “She wants to know if we’re still on for Sunday.”

“Why don’t you text her back?” Scott crawls over and pulls the table of pizza and pop closer. He flips one of the boxes open, finding a large pepperoni pizza inside. Allison bites at the air and holds out a hand, so he passes her a slice.

“Because I’m with you guys,” Isaac says with a grin, leaning over Allison and Scott to grab his own slice and a bottle of root beer.

They settle back down to watch the movie, munching their way through the three pizzas. Before they start the sequel, Scott is sent into the kitchen to get the ice cream and some spoons. “Is something wrong with Derek?” Isaac asks as Scott sits back down.

Scott gives them each a very serious look. “You have to promise you won’t tell him I said this, okay?”

Allison and Isaac exchange curious glances, but they nod in agreement.

“I think…I think Derek is jealous.”

Isaac raises an eyebrow. “Jealous? Jealous of what?”

“A few weeks ago, Stiles went to a party and met this guy named Dean,” Scott explains. “This guy is freakishly pretty, and he took Stiles to get his first tattoo. I showed Derek the Snapchats Stiles sent me, and he definitely seemed thrown by it. Of course, when I asked him about it, he glared at me and denied it.”

Allison lets out a laugh and covers her mouth with her hand. “Derek’s jealous? Oh my God, that’s hilarious.” She sticks a spoonful of ice cream in her mouth. “Do you think anything will happen between Stiles and Dean?”

“No.” Scott shakes his head. “Stiles is super into Derek.”

Isaac chokes and sprays pop down his front. “Stiles likes Derek?”

Allison and Scott both turn to look at him, eyebrows raised. “Duh,” Scott says. “He’s had a crush on Derek since they met. Not that he’ll admit it to himself or Derek or anyone else.”

“He set a picture of Derek as his lock screen,” Allison adds.

Isaac blinks a couple of times. “Wow, I’m so blind.”

They start the second movie, and by the time the final film in the series is over, both containers of ice cream are empty. Scott drapes himself across Allison’s lap, hands on his overly full belly. He feels that if he moves, he’ll burst.

The three of them fall asleep on top of each other. They don’t hear Mr. Argent return, don’t hear the rumble of his red SUV. They don’t hear the way he stomps around as hard as he can in order to see if they’ll wake, and they certainly don’t hear him slam every single door in the house before finally giving up and heading upstairs to his room.

* * *

 

Dean can tell that Sam is starting to get antsy hanging around the motel, which is odd because Dean is usually the one ready to move on, to find the next town, the next case. “Why are we still here?” Sam demands, slamming his laptop shut.

“It’s called a vacation,” Dean says.

“We’ve never taken a day of vacation in our lives,” Sam reminds him. “I found a case in Indiana. It sounds like a poltergeist. We should go.”

“Call Bobby. Have him send someone.”

Sam rolls his eyes and stands up, moving to the fridge to find a beer. Dean’s phone rings, and Sam smirks knowingly as he jumps to answer it. “Stiles, hey.”

“Called it,” Sam whispers to himself, taking a sip of beer.

“Hey, Dean.” Stiles voice crackles through the speakers. “I was wondering if that offer to work on my car was still on the table.”

“Of course.” Dean motions for Sam to hand him a beer, and Sam tosses the bottle at him. Dean snatches it out of the air. “Sam and I are just hanging around for the rest of the day. Do you want to come by the motel?”

“Sure. I just got out of class. Can I come by now?”

“Yeah. I’ll see you in a few.”

Stiles chirps a goodbye and hangs up. Across the room, Sam smirks and wriggles his eyebrows as Dean drops his phone on his bed. “What?” Dean snaps.

Sam raises his hands, still grinning, and turns his attention back to his beer.

Dean moves around the motel room, hiding all the evidence of their unusual lifestyle. The guns go under the beds, and he pulls down their investigation board, taking all the papers outside to the trashcan. Then he lights a match and drops it inside. After the papers have burnt away to nothing, he returns to the room and turns all their arcane books so the spines face the wall.

Stiles arrives as Dean is fishing his toolbox out of one of their duffel bags. Sam pulls the curtains open and peers outside. “That’s a shitty Jeep,” he says.

“Hence the lesson in mechanics.” Dean steps out of the motel room and waves to Stiles who practically falls out of the car, long limbs flailing as he pops back to his feet.

“Hey!” Stiles calls, his grin lopsided.

Dean pokes his head back into the room. “Want to help?” he asks Sam.

“Why not?” Sam grabs a couple more beers from the fridge, and the two of them head out into the parking lot. It’s a surprisingly warm day from spring in Chicago, though a brisk breeze ruffles Dean’s hair.

Stiles pops the hood of his battered, blue Jeep, as they get closer, and he grins at Sam. “Hey, man, what’s up?”

“Not much. I hear you got a tattoo.”

Grinning broadly, Stiles pulls up the sleeve of his plaid shirt and shows off the wolf print tattoo, the skin around it still a little red. Sam nods appreciatively.

“Let’s see what we’ve got here,” Dean says, setting his toolbox down and peering into the innards of the Jeep. The engine is old and very rusty, and most of the parts look like they need to be replaced. “This is going to take a lot of work.”

Stiles proves to be a quick study. Dean shows him how to clean the engine and how to fiddle with the parts, how to slide under the car to check the exhaust and the muffler. Sam pokes his head in occasionally to offer advice, but mostly, he just leans against the side of the car and drinks beer.

After a few hours, Dean tells Stiles to try starting the car. Stiles nods and clambers into the driver’s seat, poking his tongue out of his mouth as he turns the key. The engine roars to life on the first try, and Stiles lets out a cheer. “We did it!”

“I can’t promise it will last very long,” Dean says. “This car is really old and needs a lot of work.”

“I ordered pizza,” Sam breaks in, holding his phone in his hand. “Stiles, do you want to stay for dinner?”

“Oh, sure,” Stiles says with another grin. “I like pizza.”

They head back into the motel room and drop into the chairs around the table as Sam passes out beers. Stiles phone buzzes, and Dean catches a glimpse of a gorgeous, black-haired man with impossible cheekbones on his lock screen. “Who’s that?” Dean asks.

“Huh?” Stiles looks startled, and he glances down at his phone. “Oh, that’s my friend, Derek. He’s grumpy. This is the only photo I have of him where he’s actually smiling.”

There’s a knock at the door, and Sam gets up to answer it. The delivery boy hands him two boxes in exchange for cash Sam won by hustling pool. “Dinner’s here,” Sam announces, plopping the food down in the center of the table. There’s a large, three-meat pizza and a box of garlic sticks.

Dean and Stiles attack the pizza, and Sam barely has time to get in on the action. He has to use his elbows to force his way in.

* * *

 

Lydia Martin doesn’t like Dr. Crowley. She can’t exactly put her finger on the why, but the feeling has been growing every since he first started teaching their class. It’s her banshee senses. Death hangs over him like a cloud, or maybe shroud would be the more appropriate word.

Lydia pulls into the parking lot of Beacon Hills High School and parks her car. She taps her manicured nails against the steering wheel for a few moments, staring at the dark building. Her death sense tingles and has been since she woke up, driving her here to investigate.

Her heels click as she steps out of the car and walks towards the front doors. It’s after hours on a weekend, so she’s sure that there won’t be anyone around. The doors are locked, but Lydia long ago had a key made, so she’s able to easily let herself in. The main foyer is dark and more than a little creepy, but she pulls a small penlight from her purse and shines it around. She makes a beeline for Dr. Crowley’s classroom. She has a key for that door, too. During her junior year, after she found out about the supernatural, she swiped the janitor’s master key and made a copy of it.

She shuts the classroom door behind her and walks over to Dr. Crowley’s desk. She starts to open up the draws and rifles through them, but there’s nothing incriminating or suspicious. She drops into his chair, drumming her fingers against the armrest.

There has to be something, some kind of clue. Lydia stands up and looks through the cabinets by the blackboard, but there’s nothing in them but blank worksheets and old tests. She supposes it makes sense that there’s no evidence in the classroom. She wouldn’t want to keep anything damning in such a public place either.

Lydia sighs and slams the last door shut. The death sense continues to prickle within her skull, but she shrugs it away. Then she leaves the school, locking up behind her. She backs out of the parking spot and drives away a little faster than is safe. This is going to bug her until she figures it out. The death sense won’t let her forget about it.

Scott says he smells sulfur, and Lydia senses death, but she hasn’t told him about that yet. She wants to have something substantial before she worries him, especially since Dr. Crowley is dating Melissa. If Stiles were here, they could put their heads together and figure it out, but Stiles is at college and won’t be home for another two weeks.

Lydia sighs again. Hopefully, nothing bad with happen in that time.

* * *

 

Stiles sees Sam and Dean every day for the next week. They go to dinner, get drinks, see movies, and work on Stiles’ car. Sam even helps him study for his finals, though Dean isn’t much use in that department. Mostly, he just lounges in whatever seat is available and eats food, usually pie.

Stiles has never really met anyone like the two brothers before. They’re smart, charismatic, and he gets the sense that they’re more than a little dangerous. They both get along with people. Dean has this way of smiling that makes people jump to help him, and Sam can set his eyes to some kind of super sincere mode, and people instantly trust him.

Dean even teaches Stiles how to hustle pool, and Stiles picks that up like he was born to it. His ADHD and non-stop mind lets him hold all the angles and calculations in his head, while all the years playing video games keep his hands steady. They win $200 the Saturday before Stiles’ first final, and then they head to a different bar to celebrate.

Stiles runs a finger around the rim of his beer glass as Dean prepares to take the first of three shots. “So,” Stiles hesitates, stomach fluttering, “I’m heading back to Beacon Hills in a week.”

“Yeah?” Dean tosses back the first shot.

“Yeah.” Stiles taps his fingers on his glass. “I was wondering if maybe you guys would want to come visit for a bit.”

The next shot disappears, and Dean glances over at Sam. “I think that would be awesome. Sam?”

“Yeah, it would be. We’ll have to see if we’re free, though.” He gives Dean a pointed look that Stiles can’t interpret. An entire silent conversation seems to pass between them, an argument that Dean loses.

“We’ll need to check our schedule,” Dean says finally. “Is it okay if I text you later tonight and let you know?”

Stiles tries to ignore the way his stomach sinks. He jerks his head to the side as a sort of shrug. “Yeah. Sure. That’s cool. Totally fine.” _I definitely won’t be poised over my phone all night._

They finish their drinks, and Stiles heads out. He needs to do some more studying for his finals, and he’s feeling oddly embarrassed about what just happened. He just wants to hide in his bed with the covers pulled up over his head.

* * *

 

Sam and Dean watch Stiles get in his Jeep and drive off, Dean’s pretzels loud in Sam’s ear. “Dean, you know we can’t go to Beacon Hills. We’ve been away from hunting for too long. It’s time to get back on the road.”

“I know,” Dean groans, polishing off his last shot. “But did you see the way his face fell? I feel bad.”

“I do too, but we’ve got to be smart.”

“Yeah, I suppose you’re right.” Dean sighs and pulls a wad of cash out of his pocket to pay for the drinks, and then they head out of the bar and back to their motel. Dean grabs Sam’s laptop and flops down on his bed, and Sam goes into the bathroom to take a shower. Steam quickly fills the small room, and Sam takes his time lathering his hair with shampoo that smells like strawberries. Dean teases him mercilessly for it, but Sam likes the way it smells.

He shuts off the water and dries himself, wrapping the towel around his waist before leaving the bathroom in search of clean clothes. Dean looks up as soon as he hears the door, and the glow of the laptop lights up his face. “Dude, you’re not going to believe this.”

“Can I put clothes on first?” Sam asks.

“No.”

Sam glares at Dean and puts clothes on anyways, joining Dean on the bed as he buttons up a brown and black plaid shirt. Dean spins the laptop around so he can see. “So, I looked up Beacon Hills, just out of curiosity, and check this out.” He clicks through a series of police reports and news stories. “Mysterious deaths, weird animal maulings, unexplained disappearances. What does that sound like?”

Sam looks Dean in the eye. “It sounds like just our kind of thing.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for all the comments and kudos! I love hearing from my readers! I've also started working on a Teen Wolf zombie apocalypse AU. Is there any interest in that?


	7. Back to Beacon Hills

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for all your wonderful comments!

Chapter Seven

Back to Beacon Hills 

Stiles, Dean, and Sam meet up fro breakfast the morning after Stiles’ last final. They go to a shiny, new Ihop that’s close enough to both of their residences for them all to walk to. Dean orders the never-ending pancakes, Sam a cheese omelet with sausage links, and Stiles a very large stack of waffles.

Stiles pulls a sheaf of paper from his bag and passes it to Sam. “Are you sure you don’t want to just ride with me?”

Dean and Sam share a look. “We’ve got to pick up our car,” Sam says. “We’ll meet you there in a few days.”

“Alright. There are the directions, then.” Stiles nods at the stack of papers. “I’m still working out the best place for you to stay. My house is pretty small.”

Dean stuffs an entire pancake in his mouth. “Dude, this is going to be awesome! I’m so excited!”

Stiles grins and attacks his waffles.

Sam takes care of the bill, and the three of them part ways after they leave the restaurant, waving goodbye. Stiles has to be out of his dorm room by noon, and he hasn’t even assembled the cardboard boxes yet. It’s ten in the morning.

He hurries across the campus and bounds up the stairs of the dorm building. Jacob steps out of his room and into the hall, bearing two large boxes, just as Stiles exits the stairwell. “Hey, man,” Stiles says.

“Can’t talk,” Jacob wheezes.

So Stiles steps aside and holds the door for him, then heads into his own room which is in it’s usual state of disarray. Stiles frowns. Maybe he should have asked Sam and Dean to come help, though he knows they plan to leave within the hour in order to catch a bus and retrieve their car. His phone rings as he starts to tape up the boxes, and he puts it on speaker. “Hello?”

“Hey, son,” his dad says.

“Dad, hey! What’s up?” Stiles pulls his sheets from his bed and stuffs them in the first box.

“I was just calling to see if you’ve left yet. It’s a long drive.”

“Uh…”

Sheriff Stilinski sighs as if that was exactly the answer he’d been expecting. “Just promise me you won’t try to do the drive all at once.”

“I promise, Dad.” Stiles pulls the drawers out of his dresser and upends them into a box, shaking each one to get every last sock out. “I’ll find a motel somewhere.”

“Good. Are your friends still coming to visit?”

Next, Stiles goes to work on his desk. “Sam and Dean, yeah. They have to go to South Dakota first to pick up their car. I offered to drive them there, but they declined, said they’d take a bus. They’ll be in Beacon Hills in a few days.”

“Did you warn them we don’t have space in our house?” Sheriff Stilinski asks.

The first two boxes are done, so Stiles tapes them up and sets them by the door. “I told them. I thought maybe I’d ask Derek if they can stay with him. He’s got a lot of extra rooms” Stiles isn’t exactly sure how Derek will feel about that, but it can’t hurt to ask. “Dad, I gotta go. I’ve got a lot of packing to do.”

“Alright, Stiles,” Sheriff Stilinksi says. “Keep me posted on your progress.”

“Will do, Dad. Love you.”

“Love you too, son.”

Stiles hangs up and then moves around his room in a flurry of motion, tossing belongings into boxes and then into trash bags when the boxes run out. He gets everything down to his car in record time and drops his key off at the Housing and Residential Life office just before noon ticks by. He gives the lady a lopsided grin, but she just looks at him and then at the clock as she takes his key.

Jacob and Sarah are already gone. Sara left the night before, and Jacob’s father picked him up a few hours ago, but the three of them have already said goodbye, so Stiles doesn’t feel bad about heading straight back to his car.

The Jeep is running better than it ever has in the entire time he’s owned it, thanks to Dean. He stops at a grocery store on his way out of town and buys enough junk food to fill the entire passenger seat. There are so many boxes stacked in the back that he can barely see out the rear windshield.

Stiles drives for about twelve hours, the radio blasting, his hands tapping against the steering wheel, the pile of junk food beside him slowly shrinking. He stops in a motel somewhere on the western edge of Colorado, taking his electronics and other valuables into the shitty room with him.

* * *

Dean hates buses almost as much as he hates airplanes. It’s not that he’s afraid of buses, it’s just that they’re loud and smelly, and the people who take them are weird. And Sam is no help at all. He just plugs in his headphones and stares out the window, listening to some lame history podcast or whatever. So Dean decides to be obnoxious and falls asleep against his shoulder.

It takes them about ten hours go get to Sioux Falls, South Dakota, and Bobby is there to pick them up. Sam shoves Dean awake, and the two of them stumble off the bus, blinking in the harsh station lights. Bobby looks the same as ever: grizzled, grey beard, ratty trucker’s hat, a plaid shirt with worn elbows over a grey t-shirt, and a hunter’s vest with saggy pockets.

He stands in front of his beat-up, three-color car and raises a hand to catch their attention. Dean and Sam toss their bags in the trunk, and Dean body slams Sam out of the way so he can sit in the front seat. Sam stands outside the car for a moment, jaw grinding, before finally climbing into the backseat.

“You boys were gone a long time,” Bobby says. He starts the car, and the engine coughs and wheezes to life. He pulls away from the bus station, and Dean feels like he’s getting a butt massage.

“We decided to take a vacation,” Dean says, popping open the glove box to see if Bobby has any good cassette tapes. He doesn’t.

“You boys don’t take vacations,” Bobby points out.

Sam leans forward. “That’s what I said, but Dean insisted.” He whispers in Bobby’s ear, smirking. “He met a boy.”

“What about Cas?” Bobby spins the wheel, taking them onto a highway that leads out of the city.

“What about Cas?” Dean demands.

Bobby and Sam share a knowing look that makes Dean want to smack them both in the head. Instead, he changes the subject, fighting down the flutter in his stomach at the sound of Cas’s name. “His name is Stiles, and he invited us to come stay with him for a while in Beacon Hills. You heard of it?”

When Bobby hears the name of the town, he curses, and the car swerves jarringly, slamming Dean’s head against the bare metal frame of the door.

“I take that as a yes,” Dean says, clutching his head.

“I looked it up online,” Sam says. “Some crazy stuff has gone down there.”

“More than some,” Bobby agrees. The city lights disappear, and they’re driving down an unbroken stretch of rural highway. Their headlights are the only ones to be seen. “Quite a few hunters have disappeared there over the years.”

“What do you know?” Sam asks.

Bobby shrugs. “Not much. There’s not a lot of information that gets out of that town and what does is garbled. People have been dying and disappearing there for decades, but the number has increased exponentially over the past few years.”

“I found a lot of articles about animal maulings,” Sam says. “Usually blamed on cougars.”

“So are we thinking a werewolf pack?” Dean asks. He pulls a king-sized bag of peanut M&Ms out of his jacket’s inside pocket and tears it open.

“It seems like the most likely explanation,” Bobby says as the dark, flat landscape flashes by. “But if it is, it’s a big pack.”

Dean sighs. “Work, work, work.”

They pull into the driveway of Bobby’s auto shop and car graveyard. The stacks of smashed vehicles loom up around them like jagged, teetering behemoths, lit up briefly by the headlights as they drive by. Bobby parks close to the faded, ramshackle house and waits for Sam and Dean to get their bags before leading the way to the front door.

Just like Bobby, the inside of his house is the same as ever. The white tiles of the kitchen floor are dingy and grey, and there are empty glasses and whisky bottles loaded on every counter. The parts of the wooden floor in the den that aren’t covered by rugs are scuffed, and books are piled on every available surface, teetering in uneven piles, lying open on the desks and tables, and stuffed in the tall bookshelves.

“Can we crash here for the night, Bobby?” Sam asks.

“You boys can always stay here,” Bobby says with a smile. “Just be aware that there’s no food in the house.”

Dean pulls another bag of peanut M&Ms out of his pocket.

* * *

Melissa McCall has invited Dr. Crowley over for dinner. She’s invited him over, and she’s making Scott stay. There’s an hour until the big meal, and Scott is currently hiding in his room despite Melissa’s repeated orders that he come help with the preparation.

“Scott,” Melissa shouts up the stairs. “Now!”

“Fine!” Scott yells back and stomps out of his room, arms crossed.

His mom is making pot roast, mashed potatoes, and green beans for dinner, and she’s already drunk half a bottle of wine. “Is that what you’re wearing?” she asks as soon as Scott enters the kitchen.

“Is that what _you’re_ wearing?” Scott shoots back, eying his mother’s black bathrobe and the curlers in her hair. She glares at him.

Scott peels the potatoes as Melissa rubs herbs into the meat, and then he tosses the cubes into a pot of boiling water. He chops the ends off the green beans, dropping them in a pan that has bacon bits sizzling in it. Melissa pushes the pot roast into the oven and slams the door shut, brushing her hands off, and Scott stirs the green beans. When they’re done, he takes them off the heat and dumps them in an orange ceramic bowl. Next, he strains the potatoes and puts them back in the pot with some butter and milk, his arm muscles working as he handles the masher.

When the food is done, Melissa sends him upstairs to change with the threat of a pan to the head if he doesn’t come back down wearing a suit. He has more than a little trouble getting his tie to knot properly, but he finally tugs it into place as the doorbell rings.

“Shit,” he says, pulling at the cuffs of his jacket and hating how they’re about an inch too short. He hears his mother open the door.

“Gus! Hello! Please, come in. Can I take your jacket?”

“Thank you,” Dr. Crowley says in his low, rough voice.

“Scott!” Melissa bellows up the stairs. That’s his cue.

Scott buttons up his jacket and thunders down the stairs. Melissa hangs Dr. Crowley’s coat on one of the pegs as he arrives, and he offers his teacher an awkward grin. “Hi, Dr. Crowley.”

“Scott.” Dr. Crowley inclines his head.

“Would you like something to drink, Gus?” Melissa asks. She’s changed into a red, sleeveless dress.

“That would be lovely. Do you have Scotch?” Dr. Crowley follows Melissa into dining room and sits down as Melissa fixes them both a drink. Scott gets a Coke. He would have preferred a beer. Or five.

“I’m going to get the pot roast,” Melissa says, and then she leaves Scott and Dr. Crowley at the table. Alone. Scott fiddles with his fork, tapping his finger against the handle.

“Looking forward to the end of the year?” Dr. Crowley asks.

Scott nods a couple of times and continues playing with his fork, wishing Melissa would come back.

“Ready for finals?” Dr. Crowley swirls his glass of Scotch and then takes a sip.

Scott lets out a short laugh. “Not even close.”

Melissa comes back into the room, bearing a silver pot which she carefully sets on the pot holders in the center of the table. “It smells delicious,” Dr. Crowley tells her, smiling again.

They serve themselves and start eating. Scott’s impressed. Usually, Melissa’s cooking leaves much to be desired. Scott is glad for the food; it means he doesn’t have to talk. But he still has to listen to them talk and watch them make googly eyes at each other.

“So, Scott, plans for the summer?” Dr. Crowley asks, forcing him to join the conversation.

Scott swallows a large spoonful of potatoes. “Not really. Stiles will be home in a day or two. Apparently, he’s bringing two of his college friends home.”

“What are their names?” Melissa asks.

“Sam and Dean.”

Dr. Crowley chokes on a bite of meat and pounds on his chest with a fist. Melissa stretches out a hand and touches his arm, looking concerned. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine.” Dr. Crowley coughs, face a little red. He finally swallows the food and coughs again, washing it down with more Scotch.

The rest of the meal goes quickly and smoothly, and Dr. Crowley even stays to help with the dishes, taking off his dark suit coat and rolling up the sleeves of his equally dark shirt. Melissa clears, Scott washes, and Dr. Crowley dries. After the kitchen is clean, he says goodbye to the both of them, and Scott heads upstairs so Melissa and Dr. Crowley can have a moment alone.

* * *

Dean wakes up early, stretching before he stands up from Bobby’s battered couch, and digs his hidden stash of beef jerky out of his bag, sticking a strip in his mouth for breakfast. He stuffs his feet into his boots and then heads outside to check on his car.

The Impala sits by Bobby’s car, sleek and black and gleaming in the morning light. “Hey, Baby,” Dean crows, running his hand over her shining roof. “Did you miss me?”

He pops the trunk open and lifts the false bottom, propping it in place with a sawed-off shotgun. The arsenal is just as they left it; the guns, knives, and assorted supernatural paraphernalia protected by the pentagram painted on the false panel.

He hears the screen door open and looks up to see Bobby step out onto the porch, steaming mug in hand. “Thanks for taking care of her, Bobby,” Dean says.

Bobby nods. “You’ll be careful in Beacon Hills, won’t you?”

“We’re always careful,” Dean says just as Bobby lifts the mug to his lips. Coffee sprays out of the cup, and Bobby curses.

“Don’t make me choke, boy.”

“Sorry.”

Sam steps out of the house, wearing a pumpkin orange plaid shirt. “Hey, Dean,” he says. “Do you have anything left in your beef jerky stash?”

Dean narrows his eyes at Sam suspiciously. “I don’t have a beef jerky stash.”

“Uh huh. Sure.” Sam rolls his eyes. He carries both his and Dean’s bag with him and brings them down to the car. Dean closes up the armory, so Sam can toss them inside. “We should head out. We’ve got a lot of miles to cover.”

Dean nods. “Thanks again.”

They wave goodbye to Bobby and climb into the Impala, and then Dean peels out of the car yard as fast as he can.

* * *

Stiles gets up early the next morning and gets on the road as soon as he can. He has about fifteen hours of driving left to do. His dad would prefer that he stop again, but he just wants to get home.

He eats lots of junk food, listens to music at a blaring volume, and only has to stop twice to do repairs on the Jeep. Stiles rolls into Beacon Hills just after 11pm and heads straight home, taking only his overnight bag with him into the house. He’ll make the rest of the Pack help him unload in the morning.

He bangs through the door. “Dad!”

There’s a grunt of surprise and a thud from the living room, and Stiles drops his bag in the entrance way so he can go see what’s happened. His dad is lying on the couch, rubbing sleep from his face, and a thick book is on the floor, having fallen off his chest as he jerked awake.

“Stiles?” Sheriff Stilinski blinks a couple of times and looks around until he spots Stiles. His short, grey hair sticks up in every direction, and he wears a pair of blue pajamas.

“It’s me,” Stiles says with a grin. Sheriff Stilinski clambers upright and scoops Stiles up in a large hug, squeezing him so hard that Stiles swears he hears his ribs creak. Sheriff Stilinski lets go and ruffles Stiles’ hair, the lines on his face smoothed away by the smile that sits there instead.

“How was the drive?” Sheriff Stilinski asks, pulling Stiles down onto the couch.

“Long,” Stiles says. “Very long.”

“Well, I’ll let you get some sleep.” Sheriff Stilinski ruffles Stiles’ hair again. “We’ll talk more in the morning, okay?”

Stiles agrees with a grin and retrieves his bag before making his way upstairs to his room. He tosses the bag to the floor and then himself to the bed, pulling his phone out of his pocket and squirming up to his pillows. He sends a text to the Pack’s GroupMe chat.

_Guess who’s back! It’s Stiles!_  
_And guess who’s going to come by my house_  
_at 10 tomorrow morning to help me unpack?_  
_That’s right! You!  
_ _I may provide donuts._

He tosses his phone to the bedside table, suddenly too tired to even dig his charger out of his bag. His phone buzzes as he falls asleep, but he doesn’t have the energy to check it.

* * *

Stiles rolls out of bed a half hour before the Pack is supposed to arrive, and his phone is full of messages from his friends, promising to be at his house. Derek is the only one who hasn’t replied, which hurts a bit, but Stiles is confident the rest of the Pack will drag him along.

Stiles stomps downstairs, jumping the last three steps, and makes his way to the kitchen. His dad is already there, fixing a pot of coffee, and there are two large boxes of donuts sitting on the counter. “Morning, son,” he says and hands Stiles a cup of coffee.

There’s a knock at the door, and Stiles grabs a chocolate donut before going to answer it. When he opens the door, he nearly chokes on his first bite of food. Derek stands on the front step, looking impossibly perfect in a grey V-neck and a pair of battered jeans, stubble splashed across his face. He pulls off a pair of dark aviator sunglasses when he sees Stiles and smirks just a little bit.

“Derek!” Stiles loses track of his words. “You…you’re here early! Come in.” Stiles steps back so Derek can enter. He seems to fill the entire entranceway, and Stiles can feel the heat radiating off him from several feet away. He wants to give Derek a hug, but he’s not sure how Derek would feel about that, so the moment passes, and instead, he says, “There’s coffee and donuts in the kitchen.”

Derek follows him down the hall and around the corner, and he helps himself to a donut. “Derek,” Sheriff Stilinski says with a nod. “Where’s the rest of the Pack?”

“On their way,” Derek answers.

Sheriff Stilinski nods again, a knowing look on his face that Stiles doesn’t understand. He stuffs the last of his donut into his mouth as his dad subtly leaves the kitchen. Derek pours himself a cup of coffee and leans up against the counter, his grey-green eyes boring into Stiles.

“I’m glad you’re home,” he says, and Stiles feels a grin lift his face.

“Glad to be home,’ he agrees. “Hey, can I ask a favor?”

“Aside from the slave labor I’m about to perform unloading all your possessions?”

Stiles makes a face at him. “Har har. So, two of my friends are coming to visit, Sam and Dean, and I was wondering if they could stay in some of your extra rooms. We don’t have space here.”

About seven different expressions run across Derek’s face in a second, but Stiles can’t interpret any of them.

“They’re really cool. You’ll like them,” Stiles promises, forcing a smile.

“Uh, sure, of course,” Derek says finally.

Stiles lets out a sigh of relief. “Thanks, man.”

There’s another knock at the door, and Derek and Stiles go to answer it together. The rest of the Pack stands outside, crowded together on the small porch. “There better be donuts,” Cora says. “That’s the only reason I’m here.”

“In the kitchen,” Stiles says.

The werewolves in the Pack push past him into the house, making a beeline for the kitchen. Lydia rolls her eyes as she steps sedately over the threshold, Allison right behind her. “We had breakfast a half hour ago,” Lydia says. Then her pink lips quirk, and she gives Stiles a tight hug. “It’s good to see you, Stiles.”

Stiles wraps his arms around her, her hair tickling his nose and the scent of her perfume surrounding him. “You too.”

They break apart, and Allison takes Lydia’s place. “Stiles!” Scott calls from the kitchen. “You’re out of donuts!”

Stiles rolls his eyes, and the four of them rejoin the rest of the Pack. Everyone steps up to give Stiles a welcoming hug. Scott’s lasts the longest, and Erica whispers something dirty in his ear with a playful grin. Stiles directs his troops out to the Jeep, and Isaac and Boyd get into a contest to see who can carry the most stuff in one go. Lydia perches on the porch railing, legs crossed, and offers vaguely scathing encouragement as people walk by her.

They get the car unloaded and all the stuff moved up to Stiles’ room in an hour, and then Scott, Allison, and Lydia stay to help him put his things away while the rest of the Pack disperses, though Lydia insists on putting things away in the exact opposite spot as where they’re supposed to go, so Stiles has to follow her around and move everything back.

Allison and Lydia head out mid-afternoon, leaving Scott and Stiles behind. Stiles plugs the Xbox into the TV, and they flop down on the bed, controllers in hand. Scott stays for dinner, filling Stiles in on the Pack’s training and his mom’s relationship with Dr. Crowley, and Stiles tells him all about the horrors of college finals. His dad is working late tonight, so it’s just Scott and Stiles in the house.

“Oh, show me the tattoo!” Scott says when they’re on dessert.

Stiles grins and rolls up his sleeve, and Scott seizes his arm so he can pull it up to his eyes. “It’s awesome! We’re tattoo buddies!”

Stiles narrows his eyes. “Don’t compare my awesome tattoo to your lame one.”

Scott laughs that bubbling laugh of his and finishes off the carton of ice cream.

They start up a movie, and Stiles’ phone buzzes with a text from Dean saying they’ve got about six hours left and they’re stopping for the night; hopefully, they’ll be there around dinnertime tomorrow. “I can’t wait to introduce you to Sam and Dean,” Stiles says, putting his phone away. “We should have a big Pack dinner tomorrow.”

“Sure,” Scott agrees. “I’ll set something up at Derek’s.”

Scott spends the night, and Sheriff Stilinski kicks him out in the morning so he and Stiles can have breakfast together. Stiles makes eggs and rolls up the sleeves of his shirt as he sits down so the cuffs won’t get in his food. Sheriff Stilinski starts to eat but freezes with his fork halfway to his mouth. “What is that?”

“Hm?” Stiles looks up, and his dad points an accusing fork at Stiles’ forearm. Stiles turns his arm over, fully revealing the wolf print tattoo. “Oh, I got a tattoo. Didn’t I tell you?”

Sheriff Stilinski narrows his eyes. “No, you didn’t.”

“Oh, sorry.” Stiles quickly changes the subject, though he can tell this isn’t the last time he’ll hear about it. “You coming to the Pack dinner tonight?”

“Can’t.” Sheriff Stilinski sighs and finally resumes eating. “I have to work late again.”

They finish eating, Sheriff Stilinski grilling Stiles on everything that happened at college, and then Stiles drives to Derek’s to make sure everything is set up for Sam and Dean’s arrival. He doesn’t bother knocking, just walks right in, and Derek calls a hello.

“Hey.” Stiles finds Derek in the living room, reading. “Are the rooms ready?”

“Clean sheets, fresh towels,” Derek says.

“Thanks fore letting them stay here.” Stiles drops onto the couch, propping his feet up on the coffee table.

“Sure.”

Stiles frowns; Derek is being even more monosyllabic than usual. “Is everything okay?” he asks.

“Of course,” Derek says blandly.

“You know, if you don’t want them to stay here, you can say so.” Stiles leans forward, but Derek won’t meet his eyes.

“It’s fine,” Derek says. “Really.”

“Okay.” Stiles stands up and stuffs a hand through his hair and heads for the door after staring at Derek for a moment. He pauses just before he turns the corner. “I missed you while I was away.”

Embarrassed, he turns and leaves before he can see the small smile that creeps across Derek’s face.

* * *

It’s Sam’s idea that they spread the twenty-four hour drive out across three days rather than doing it all in one-shot like Dean wants. When they stop the second night, Dean texts Stiles to update him on the progress, and the morning of the third day, they stop for lunch before hitting the road.

Dean happily runs his hand along Baby after they leave the restaurant, and Sam cocks an eyebrow. “Do you two need a moment alone?”

“Shut up.”

When they’re two hours away from Beacon Hills, Stiles texts Dean an address, and Dean tosses his phone to Sam so he can boot up the GPS. “He says we’ll be staying at his friend Derek’s house, and he hopes we’re hungry,” Sam says.

“I am hungry.” Dean presses down on the accelerator, and the needle creeps up to 90, the heavy beat of a rock song thrumming through his feet.

They don’t actually drive through the city of Beacon Hills to get to the address Stiles sent them. The road winds through a prickly forest, and the GPS tells them to turn onto a hidden driveway not far from the city limits. Dean stomps on the brakes and hauls the wheel around, gravel spraying from the wheels as the Impala just barely makes the turn onto the driveway which winds through the forest for about a minute before opening up into a wide clearing.

The house before them has three stories and a certain elegance to it despite being squat. Many windows dot the wall, and there’s a wide porch, the roof above it supported by white pillars. The paneling is painted a pleasant blue color. There are four cars and a dirt bike parked in front of the house, and Dean is glad to see one of them is Stiles’ Jeep.

He pulls up beside a gleaming, black Camaro, and they step out of the Impala. Nerves flutter in Dean’s stomach, and he glances over at Sam. “Ready?”

* * *

The entire Pack gathers at Derek’s house in the late afternoon, and Derek is somehow convinced to make Laura Hale’s Famous Spaghetti and Meatballs. Stiles joins him in the kitchen and jumps to when Derek gives him a job to do. Erica and Boyd set the large dining table while Lydia corrects all of their mistakes.

At about seven, Dean hears the roar of a car engine coming up the drive, accompanied by the sound of rock music, and it’s loud enough that even Stiles lifts his head, a grin spreading across his face. “That must be them!”

Derek feels a weird twinge at the excitement in his voice.

He twitches the curtain on the kitchen window open and sees a beautiful, black car trundling up the gravel drive. Stiles joins him, his cheek practically pressed up against Derek’s. Derek wishes there weren’t so many werewolves in the house so there wouldn’t be any witnesses to the thundering of his heart.

“Come on!” Stiles seizes Derek’s hand and drags him away from the window before he can see who steps out of the car.

There’s a knock at the door, and the Pack gathers round as Stiles pulls it open. The first thing Derek notices is that they’re both tall. Tall and broad. Derek recognizes the blonde one from Stiles’ tattoo selfie, and he’s even prettier in person, wearing a brown leather jacket over an off-white pullover. The other one is even taller with brown hair that falls to his shoulders and friendly eyes. Derek is not entirely sure what made him decide to wear such an oddly colored plaid shirt.

“Sam, Dean, come in!” Stiles says.

Both men smile and step inside, and the taller one shuts the door behind them. Stiles herds everyone into the dining room, and as Sam and Dean walk past, Derek catches a faint whiff of metal, gun powder, and something herb-like that he can’t identify.

“Everyone, meet Sam and Dean.” Stiles gestures at his two new friends, and they wave slightly. Derek eyes them. There’s something dangerous in the way they stand, a breath of violence in every line of their bodies. Stiles doesn’t notice it. He stands right beside them, half their size, oblivious. “And these are my friends.” Stiles points at everyone in turn. “That’s my best friend Scott. Then Allison, Lydia, Isaac, Cora, Erica, Boyd, and Derek.”

He leaves Derek for last. Derek’s not sure what that means.

“Hey,” Dean says. He has an easy smile. Derek doesn’t like it. And he doesn’t like Sam’s overly sincere eyes.

“We’ve heard a lot about you,” Scott says, all puppy-dog charm.

“All good things, I hope.” Sam grins.

A timer dings in the kitchen, and Derek whirls on his heel to go strain the pasta. “Is he…” he hears Dean say.

“He’s always like that,” Stiles answers. “I told you, he’s grumpy.”

Derek scowls. He’s convinced there’s something weird going on with the brothers. He shakes the last of the water off the spaghetti and dumps it in a bowl, then drops the meatballs on top and pours the tomato sauce over it.

“Scott, come get the breadsticks!” he calls over his shoulder.

Scott patters into the kitchen, but Derek doesn’t hand him the loaded plate right away. “What do you think about them?” he asks, jerking his head towards the dining hall where he can hear people laughing.

Scott shrugs. “I like them. Dean’s funny, and Sam is nice.”

“You don’t think there’s anything off about them?”

“No.” Scott shakes his head and reaches for the dish of breadsticks.

“They smell like gunpowder,” Dean insists. “They’re dangerous. I can tell.”

Scott rolls his eyes. “You’re overreacting. You just don’t like them because you don’t know them.” He snatches the plate out of Derek’s hand and leaves the kitchen. Derek sighs. He’s not overreacting.

He carries the large bowl of spaghetti into the dining room and sets it down in the center of the table. Everyone is already seated. Stiles sits by Dean, and Lydia slides into a chair beside Sam. Derek takes the head of the table, opposite Scott.

Since they have guests, the werewolves at least try to act like civilized people. They don’t fall on the food like they usually do, but it still leaps from the bowl to their plates with lightning speed. Dean’s plate is piled just as high as Scott’s.

Sam and Dean easily fit in with the Pack. Dean flirts shamelessly with everyone around him, and Sam gets into a debate with Stiles about the relative merits of different Greek and Roman gods. Derek watches the way Stiles laughs at the things Dean says and feels a pang in his stomach.

Dinner lasts for hours, even after the last morsel of food is consumed. Allison brought a pie over for dessert, and Dean’s eyes light up when he sees it. “Yes! Pie!”

“Dean likes pie,” Sam explains unnecessarily as Dean digs into the slice Allison hands him.

He makes a grunt of appreciation. “Awesome.”

“Stiles says you guys know a thing or two about cars,” Isaac says through a mouthful of pie.

Dean has matching chipmunk cheeks, so Sam answers for him. “Yeah. It’s the family business. Our dad taught us most of what we know.”

“Who’s Camaro is that outside?” Dean asks. “It’s slick.”

“Mine,” Derek says.

“It’s real slick,” Dean repeats.

“Thanks.” Derek gives him a tight nod which is pretty friendly of him, he thinks.

“You ever driven something older, more classic? I’ve got a ’97 Chevy Impala, if you want to take her for a spin sometime.”

“I like my car,” Derek says, gratified to see Dean’s smile falter. Stiles kicks him under the table and frowns at him. Derek leans back in his chair and lets out a huff.

“So, Sam, why this shirt?” Lydia pokes a button on Sam’s orange shirt and purses her lips.

“Uh huh.” Lydia raises an eyebrow, and Dean snorts with laughter. “We’ll fix this later.”

Sam looks over at Dean, aghast and offended, but Dean just continues to laugh at him.

Derek makes his Betas do the dishes, though Cora conveniently disappears, then Scott, Allison, and Isaac say goodbye and leave together. “Goodnight,” Scott says to Dean. “It was nice to meet you. I’m sure we’ll see you tomorrow.”

Erica and Boyd leave next, hand in hand, and Lydia waves goodbye as well, winking at Sam. Stiles is the last one left. “I’ll call you in the morning, okay? We can get breakfast.”

“Sounds good,” Dean agrees.

Stiles shuts the door behind him, leaving Derek alone with the two brothers. Sam clasps his hand together awkwardly, glancing over at Dean who shrugs. “You got bags” Derek asks. “I’ll show you to your rooms.”

“They’re in the car,” Sam says. “We’ll go grab them.”

Derek catches another whiff of gunpowder and herbs as they walk by, and he strains his ears to listen as they walk down the porch. “He doesn’t like us,” Dean whispers.

“I don’t think he likes anyone.”

Sam and Dean come back to the house, and Derek takes them upstairs and down the hall to the last two doors. “Here are your rooms. Bathroom’s across the hall. Help yourself to anything in the kitchen.”

“Thanks for letting us stay,” Sam says, offering Derek a smile.

“Sure, no problem. I’ll see you in the morning.” Derek nods a goodnight and heads to his own room which is around the corner and down another hallway. He listens as Sam and Dean go into their rooms, and he has to remind himself it’s impolite to eavesdrop.


	8. McCall Family Dinner

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah, sorry for the repeated meal-convo structure. I guess I'm just hungry all the time and it comes through in my writing. Now that all the introductions are finished, the next chapter will pick up and be different!

Chapter Eight

McCall Family Dinner

Derek prowls from his bedroom to the bathroom the next morning, his teeth on edge and the hair on the back of his neck prickled. His house smells wrong. Dean and Sam have only been here one night, but their scent – gunpowder and herbs – already pervades the hallways and the first floor.

Derek takes a shower, hoping that will help clear his mind, but the bathroom smells like them, too. What disturbs him the most is that the smell is not wholly unpleasant. It has a certain, not familiarity, but perhaps similarity is the word he’s looking for. He steps out of the bathroom, towel wrapped around his waist, and sees Dean shambling up the hallway towards him. He wears nothing but a pair of black boxers, and the back of his blonde hair sticks up. Black tattoos crawl up and down his arms, and there’s a strange design on his chest that looks like a pentagram within a circle of fire.

“Hey, Derek,” he says.

“Good morning.” Derek remembers to be polite.

A grin flickers across Dean’s face, and then it’s gone. “So, what are you doing tonight?”

“Not much.” Derek shrugs. “I thought I’d do some reading.”

The wicked grin is back. “No. You’re doing me.”

Dean winks and saunters past Derek and into the bathroom. Derek hears him cackle through the closed door.

Heat spreads up Derek’s neck and across his face as he stands in the hallway, uncertain about what to do next. Then Sam comes out of his bedroom, already fully dressed for the day, though he’s dressed in a more somberly colored plaid shirt and a dark blue jacket. Derek wonders if plaid is all he owns.

He spots the look on Derek’s face and laughs a little as he walks over. “Did Dean flirt with you, too? Don’t worry, he doesn’t mean anything by it. Dean flirts with everyone. Actually, my friend and I have a bet going over how long it’ll be until he gets his act together and asks the guy he likes out.”

“I can hear you, you know!” Dean shouts from within the bathroom. “How many times do I have to tell you that I don’t like Cas?”

Sam rolls his eyes at Derek. “He’s in denial. Anyways, I’ll let you get dressed. See you downstairs.” He walks past Derek and disappears around the corner.

Derek hurries into his room before anyone else can stop to talk to him.

After he’s dressed, he heads downstairs, and the smell of coffee wafts across his face. He finds Sam in the kitchen, a mug in hand and two more sitting beside the coffee pot. Derek nods at him and fixes himself a cup. The coffee is good, strong and bitter like it’s supposed to be, though he knows Stiles would need to pour four sugars and two creamer cups into it before he’d be able to drink it.

“Stiles invited us to his house for breakfast with his dad in thirty minutes,” Sam says. “Assuming His Royal Highness Dean is ready by then!” He shouts the last three words towards the stairs.

“I’ll be ready when I’m ready!” comes back to them.

“He has to get his hair just right,” Sam explains, rolling his eyes.

Derek is surprised to find that he laughs at that, so he takes his coffee out to the porch where he can brood in peace. Their car, the Impala, sits there like a glinting beacon of their presence.

Thirty-five minutes later, Sam pushes Dean out the door and down the steps, and Dean looks upset, as if he was dragged out of the bathroom before he was ready.

“Do you have directions?” Derek asks.

Sam waves his phone. “Yup! See you later.”

Dean hops in the driver’s seat and starts the car, its engine rumbling to life like the growl of a beast. Derek’s Camaro is nowhere near as loud, and he likes it that way, but he has to admit that the sound gives the Impala an undeniable amount of power. The car backs up, makes a quick turn, and peels off down the long driveway.

Once the last roar has died away, Cora slinks out of the house and joins Derek on the porch swing. She pulls her knees up to her chest and rests her chin on top, her long brown hair falling to frame her face. “The house smells strange,” she says.

“I know.”

“We’ve never had anyone outside the Pack stay with us before.”

“I know.”

Cora rolls her eyes. “I like them, though.”

 _You and everyone else_ , Derek thinks. “They smell like gunpowder,” he points out.

“So what? Lots of people smell like gunpowder.”

That’s true, he supposes. Chris Argent always smells like gunpowder. The game hunters who roll through town on occasion smell like gunpowder. Maybe Sam and Dean hunt. Maybe there’s nothing insidious about it.

“Do you smell that herb, too? I can’t figure out what it is.”

“Maybe they cook,” Cora says.

“I know what cooking herbs smell like,” Derek snaps, more harshly than he intends to.

Cora drops her feet to the floor with a thud and turns to glare at him. “What the hell is your problem? Dean and Sam are nice, they’re courteous, and they’re our guests.”

“I don’t trust them,” Derek says.

“Derek, you need to get over it.” She stands and stalks back into the house, her hair making waves across her back, and leaves him sitting there with his doubts and a cooling cup of coffee.

* * *

Stiles is hard at work making breakfast when the doorbell rings. “Can you get that?” he calls to his father.

“Can’t, I’m setting the table!”

Stiles sighs. Sometimes his father is the most useless person he knows. He drops the spatula to the griddle and races to the door, yanking it open. Sam and Dean fill the front step, and they both grin when they see Stiles. “Sorry we’re late,” Sam says.

“No worries. I’m still cooking breakfast. Come in.” He steps aside so they can enter, and they hang their coats on the hooks and kick off their heavy boots. “The dining room is down the hall. I have to finish up a few things in the kitchen, and then I’ll join you.”

He hurries back to the food, and in a few minutes, he has all the pancakes on a plate. There’s also bacon, sausage, and fresh fruit, and he balances all the plates on his arms as he heads into the dining room.

Everyone is already sitting when he arrives. Sheriff Stilinski scrutinizes the two brothers like they’re murder suspects, though Sam and Dean don’t seem to notice. They almost look a little strange sitting at a kitchen table, as if they aren’t used to such a domestic setting or like they weren’t made for it.

Stiles deposits all the plates into the center of the table and drops into a seat. “So, guys, this is my dad, Sheriff Stilinski. Dad, meet Sam and Dean.”

“Nice to meet you, sir,” Sam says.

“Likewise,” the sheriff agrees. He eyes the tattoos that swirl up Dean’s arms, and something steely flits across his face. “Were you the one who encouraged my son to get a tattoo?”

Dean hesitates with his fork halfway to his mouth. “Oh, was I not supposed to?”

Sheriff Stilinski grumbles something into his coffee, and Dean gives Stiles an alarmed look. Stiles shrugs. “Just, give me a heads-up next time,” the sheriff says.

“Sure, Dad,” Stiles agrees, though it’s an empty promise.

“Sorry, I wasn’t aware it would be a problem,” Dean says.

“That’s because Stiles doesn’t often take my opinion into account.” The sheriff gives Stiles a pointed look which he pretends to ignore by stuffing bacon in his face.

“How long have you been the sheriff?” Sam breaks in, smiling. It’s a bit of an abrupt segue, but Sam somehow makes it work. It’s something about his smile, something in his eyes.

“Fifteen years,” the sheriff says. “I was elected just after Stiles was born.”

“Our dad was in the Marine Corps,” Dean says, and Stiles can’t quite parse out all the nuances in his voice. There’s pride and admiration, but there’s also a note of bitterness, almost hidden beneath everything else.

“What does he do now?” Sheriff Stilinski asks.

“He actually passed away several years ago.” Dean smiles a little to lighten the blow of the words, but Stiles still glances down at his plate awkwardly.

“I’m sorry,” the sheriff says.

Sam and Dean shrug.

“What about your mother?” Sheriff Stilinski takes a slow sip of his coffee.

The brothers exchange looks. “She died in a fire when Sam was a baby. I was four,” Dean says.

Stiles shivers. Another fire. When Derek was in high school, a woman named Kate Argent set a fire in the Pack house. Nearly everyone who was inside perished with the exception of Derek’s uncle, Peter Hale, who was trapped in a coma for several years before waking up and trying to kill everyone.

Sheriff Stilinski’s face loses a little bit of its tone of interrogation. He offers Sam and Dean a gentle smile. Stiles understands what it’s like to grow up without a mother. It’s hard, even with a great dad like his.

Stiles’ phone buzzes with a text from Scott. He laughs before sharing the message with the rest of the group. “Melissa demands that I bring you two over for dinner tonight.”

“Who’s Melissa?” Dean asks.

Stiles blushes. “Oh, Scott’s mom.”

“That sounds great,” Sam says.

“Melissa’s been dating Scott’s chemistry teacher, and Scott hates it. Scott says he’s coming tonight, and I can’t wait to watch him squirm.” Stiles grins evilly and taps his fingers together like a TV villain.

“You should be nicer to your friends,” Sheriff Stilinski says, but Stiles just cackles.

Sam and Dean offer to help clean up, but Sheriff Stilinski waves them away. He starts gathering up their dishes and disappears into the kitchen. “Do you guys want a tour?” Stiles asks.

Sam and Dean agree. Stiles goes to find his keys, but just as he lifts them from the dish, Dean coughs and holds up his own set. “Oh no. We’re taking my car.”

The Impala is amazing. Dean lets him sit in the front seat, forcing Sam to the back, and the car roars with a level of raw power that Stiles has never felt before. Heads turn as Stiles directs them through town, all bearing awed expressions. Hard rock music blasts out of the stereo – though Stiles is 93% sure it’s actually a cassette player – and Dean holds the steering wheel like it’s the hand of his lover, intimately and as if he knows everything about it.

Stiles takes them on the grand tour which really isn’t very grand at all. They see Beacon Hills High School, the hospital, the veterinary clinic. Oh, the stories Stiles could tell about these places. The horrible, terrifying, painful stories. He keeps his mouth shut.

The tour takes most of the day, and then the three of the return to Derek’s to freshen up for dinner. Derek isn’t there, neither is Cora, and there’s no note. Scott’s text didn’t specify the formality of the dinner, so they go in what they’re wearing. They take the Impala again with Stiles as navigator, and they actually get there on time.

* * *

“Scott, get the door!” Melissa yells when she hears the doorbell ring. Her hands are full with the plate of chicken cordon bleu that Gus helped prepare. He’s actually an amazing cook, which Melissa supposes makes sense seeing as how he’s a chemistry teacher. There’s also a basket of warm rolls and a bowl of baked sweet potatoes.

“Hey, guys, come on in!” Scott chirps from the hallway.

Gus slips his hand around Melissa’s waist as Scott, Stiles, and his guests enter the kitchen. Gus’s hand clenches briefly, and his body tightens, but he relaxes so quickly that Melissa wonders if she imagined it. The two tall men behind her son freeze, and the blonde man’s hand twitches towards his belt. “This is Sam and Dean,” Scott says. “And this is my mom and Dr. Crowley.”

“Hi. Sam steps forward and holds his hand out to Melissa. His palm is warm and calloused against his, and she notices that he doesn’t offer it to Gus, and Gus doesn’t make a move either. She glances over at him. There’s a smile on his face, but it has a sharp edge to it.

They sit down. Sam and Dean make sure that they sit directly across from Gus, and Dean’s fingers slide over the handle of his knife. “Do you two know each other?” Melissa asks. She can’t quite read the three of them, but she gets the dim impression that they have history.

“No,” Guys says. “I can’t say we have.”

Melissa glances at Scott. He should be able to tell if something’s wrong, but he doesn’t look concerned, more engrossed with serving himself chicken.

Dean’s eyes slide over to Sam. Sam shakes his head slightly. “Never met,” Dean says. He looks at Gus with flat eyes. “So you’re a doctor?”

Gus nods. “I have a PhD in chemistry.”

“And you teach at Scott’s school?”

“I do.”

“Do you do a lot of experiments with sulfur?”

Sam nudges Dean with his elbow and shoots him a look.

“I don’t, actually,” Gus daintily cuts into his chicken and finally breaks eye contact.

“So, boys, tell me about yourselves,” Melissa says before the atmosphere in the room can get any more confusing. “What sorts of things do you like to do?”

Stiles looks up, interested. He’s clearly slightly infatuated with the brothers, with Dean in particular. Melissa smiles to herself. She wonders how Derek feels about this. “We do a lot of work with cars,” Sam says. “You could say it’s the family business.”

“How do you feel about hunting?” Gus asks. There’s a faint smile playing on his lips.

“Our dad took us when we were young,” Dean says. He smiles back at Gus, though it’s more like he bares his teeth.

“Did you ever see any wolves?” Gus takes a sip of his wine.

“No,” Dean says. He glances over at Sam, and confused expressions pass between them.

Gus smirks to himself and turns his attention back to his food.

Melissa can’t figure it out. There’s something there, but she can’t put her finger on it.

“So, Dr. Crowley,” Dean’s voice is barbed when he says Gus’s name, “where did you get your degree?”

“Undergrad at Yale, graduate school at Harvard.”

“What are you doing in Beacon Hills?”

“Teaching high school chemistry.”

“Why’d you pick this town?”

“The position was open, and I was looking for a change in scenery.”

“Where were you before this?”

“Nebraska.” Gus smirks. “Some call it Hell.”

The dialogue is lightning fast back and forth, and it’s full of thorns, though Melissa seems to be the only person who notices.

Sam kicks Dean under the table, and Dean jumps, shooting a glare at his brother. An entire silent conversation passes between them, and Dean finally gives Gus a forced smile and looks down at his plate. Gus slides his hand into Melissa’s on top of the table and squeezes. Sam’s jaw clenches.

“So, Stiles, tell us about college,” Melissa says before the atmosphere can grow any more confusing.

Stiles launches into a long, sprawling story about college life that has a dozen threads, and they get tangled up in each other or lost as he jumps from subject to subject or forgets to finish an idea. Melissa has a lot of experience following Stiles’ disjointed train of thought, so she gets the jist. Gus, though, looks completely lost. That’s right; he’s never experienced Stiles before.

When Stiles runs out of tales, Dean takes over, spinning a yarn about one of his and Sam’s many travels around the country. This one ends with Sam trapped in a fun house with two clowns – which he apparently has a phobia of – and Dean laughing hysterically outside. Sam looks like he wants to punch Dean in the head.

“In Washington, eh?” Gus says. “Did you see any moose?” He stares right at Sam as he says this.

Sam turns red and fights a scowl away.

Scott checks his phone and stuffs one last bite of food in his mouth. “Shit, we should go. We’ve got a movie to catch.”

“We do?” Sam asks.

“Yeah, we’re meeting Allison and Isaac.”

“Cool.”

The four of them stand up from the table, and Melissa rises to see them to the door. Gus stays put, running a finger around the rim of his wine glass as he watches the brothers go. He lifts a languid hand in goodbye when Sam glances back.

Melissa shakes Sam and Dean’s hands and smiles warmly at them. “Thank you for dinner, Ms. McCall,” Sam says.

She narrows her eyes at him just a little. “Just Melissa.”

“Melissa,” Sam repeats after her with a grin.

Scott ushers them out the door, and it swings shut behind them with a resounding thud. Melissa returns to her chair in the dining room, scooting it closes to Gus. She loops her fingers through his and pulls his hand onto her lap.

“Is everything alright?” She studies his face as she speaks. “You were acting a little weird at dinner.”

“I’m fine.” Gus promises. He leans in and kisses her for a long moment. “I’m just tired.”

She smiles and returns the kiss. Then she stands, pulling him upright as well, and leads him down the hall to her bedroom.

* * *

“Why is there an army man in this vent?” Scott asks, peering down at the door by his elbow.

“Don’t touch it,” Dean says, but he doesn’t explain the small toy’s presence.

Scott leans back. Maybe he should get a car like this, upgrade his bike to something cooler. Maybe then Stiles would stop making fun of him every time he rides up on his motorbike. But also Scott doesn’t have that kind of money.

They pull into the movie theater parking lot, and Allison’s car is already there. She and Isaac lean up against the wall of the building, hands intertwined. Scott tumbles out of the car and gives them each a kiss when he reaches them.

They buy tickets to the newest Marvel movie and head inside. “Snacks, anyone?” Stiles asks.

Isaac pulls two boxes out of his jacket’s inside pockets. “I’m set.”

Dean starts to laugh. “Oh, my sweet child. You have so much to learn.” He then proceeds to take a large bag of peanut M&Ms, a bag of Starbursts, three boxes of Reese’s Pieces, a package of Sour Strings, another of Twizzlers, and four king-sized Snickers bars out of various pockets around his person.

Scott stares at him in shock. That’s the most impressive thing he’s ever seen.


	9. Confrontations

Chapter Nine

Confrontations 

At 4:15, precisely an hour after his last class lets out, the door to Crowley’s classroom bangs open. He looks up from the assignment he’s grading as Squirrel and Moose storm in, both looking as self-righteous and plaid covered as ever. Crowley sets down his pen. “What can I do for you boys?”

“What the hell are you doing here, Crowley?” Squirrel demands, his green eyes angry.

Moose closes and locks the door behind them.

“I’m grading an absolutely dreadful chemistry assignment,” Crowley says calmly.

“You know what I mean. What are you doing in Beacon Hills?” Squirrel and Moose stalk over to his desk so they can loom over him, and Crowley can tell that Squirrel wants to reach for the gun tucked in the back of his belt.

Crowley leans back in his chair and steeples his fingers, unconcerned by the brothers’ thunderous expressions. “As I told you last night, I came here for a change in scenery.”

“What’s your play?” Moose snaps. “You never do something without a reason.”

“There’s no play.” Crowley starts to get a little annoyed by the Winchesters’ constant badgering (every time he sees them, it’s the same thing), but he doesn’t let it show on his face. He keeps his voice low, gruff, and neutral. “Maybe I should be asking you why you’re here.”

Why _are_ the Winchesters here? They’re not after him – they were just as surprised to see him as he was to see them – and nobody has died in Beacon Hills recently. They’re obviously close with either Scott McCall or that new one, Stiles, but, like Crowley, the Winchesters never go anywhere without a reason.

“That’s none of your business,” Squirrel says.

“And whatever you’re up to, leave Melissa McCall out of it.” Moose narrows his eyes and leans over, hands planted on Crowley’s desk.

Crowley eyes him disdainfully. “Or what?”

Squirrel pulls out his serrated demon knife and slams it into the wooden desk so hard it sticks straight up. “Or we’ll tell her exactly who and what you are, and all the things you’ve done.”

“No. You won’t.” Crowley laughs a little but keeps his eyes bland and ice cold.

Squirrel matches his sardonic laugh. “Yeah? Why’s that?”

Crowley slowly stands up, pushing back his chair with a squeal. He leans forward, planting his own hands on the desk, and glares at them both. He speaks carefully, enunciating every word so their meaning will make it through the Winchesters’ thick skulls. “Or I’ll tell your new pals Scott and Stiles about all of the bodies you two have left in your wake. I’m sure they’ll love hearing that you’ve been lying to them. And that Scott McCall has a real uptight moral code. He definitely won’t like hearing he’s been chumming it up with two serial killers.”

The three of them stare each other down for a drawn out minute. Then Crowley coolly flicks his wrist, and the door to his classroom opens. He gives them a tight smile. “Goodbye, boys.”

“We’ll be watching you,” Moose says.

Squirrel yanks his knife out of the desk as emphasis.

“Get out before I throw you out,” Crowley says. “I’ve got papers to grade.”

Squirrel and Moose stalk out of the classroom and slam the door behind them. Crowley drops back into his chair with a sigh, picking at the deep groove their dagger left behind. His life just got a whole lot more complicated.

* * *

Dean and Sam’s first week in Beacon Hills passes in a blur. While school is in session, they hang out with Stiles, and in the afternoons and weekend, they cruise around with the entire group, though Derek usually begs off, still giving Dean and Sam the cold shoulder. They go to movies, out to eat, and wander around the woods. They thankfully don’t run into Crowley again.

On their way back to Derek’s from Stiles’ house, Dean pulls into a gas station to fill up the Impala, and as Sam heads inside to pay, Dean takes his phone out and dials Cas’s number. This is the third time he’s tried to call Cas since arriving in Beacon Hills, but the angel is terrible at answering his phone. This time, though, he picks up after the fifth ring.

“Dean?” Cas’s impossibly deep, impossibly gravelly voice rumbles in his ear, and Dean’s stomach flutters. He leans back against the Impala so his knees won’t randomly give out.

“Hey, Cas, thanks for finally answering your phone,” he says. “I’ve been calling you all week.”

Cas pauses. “I keep forgetting to charge it.” He sounds a little embarrassed.

Dean sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. The California summer sun beats down on his head. “And you didn’t see that I’d called? Didn’t think to call back?”

“Sorry,” Cas says.

“Whatever.” Dean rolls his eyes. He’s gotten used to Cas’s inability to keep track of simple, human tasks. He actually thinks it’s kind of cute, but he’s not about to tell anybody that. “Sam and I are in a town called Beacon Hills, visiting a few friends. You should come by.”

“You have friends?”

“I’m going to pretend you didn’t just say that,” Dean says. “Oh, and guess what? Crowley’s here, too.”

“Crowley?” Cas demands. “Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”

“Dude, I tried.” Dean watches the numbers tick higher and higher on the price tag. “I called you, like, three times. You didn’t answer.”

“I’ll be right there.” Cas hangs up without saying goodbye, and Dean pulls his phone away from his ear and stares at it for a moment. He’s tried over and over again to teach Cas proper phone etiquette, but nothing he says sticks.

A moment later, his phone rings, making him jump, Cas’s number on the screen. “Cas, what?” he says.

“You said Beacon Hills?”

“Yeah.”

“In California?”

“Yeah.”

“I can’t get in.”

Dean’s brow furrows. “What do you mean?”

“I can’t teleport into the town. There’s something blocking me.”

“Like a ward?” Dean asks.

“I guess,” Cas says. He sounds vaguely frustrated. “But it’s not like anything I’ve encountered before. It’s not Enochian or demonic. It’s almost…organic.”

“Organic?” Dean repeats. “What does that mean?”

“If I knew that, I would’ve told you,” Cas says.

Dean rolls his eyes towards the sky as Sam comes out of the small store. The gas gauge clicks to signify it’s done filling the tank, and Dean slides the nozzle out, screwing the lid back into place. “Where are you right now?” he asks.

“Michigan,” Cas says. “I’ll find a car and make my way to you. I don’t like this Beacon Hills place.”

“Sounds–” Cas hangs up before Dean can finish the thought.

Dean snorts and puts his phone back into his pocket just as Sam walks up. “Who was that?” he asks.

“Cas,” Dean says. Sam smirks knowingly, and Dean pointedly ignores him. “Get this, he says there’s something keeping him from jumping into town. He said it was a warding, that it felt organic.

Sam cocks his head to the side. “Organic?”

“His word, not mine,” Dean says. “He couldn’t tell anything past that, but he’s going to try driving here.”

Sam moves around the Impala and climbs into the passenger seat, and Dean finds his keys before climbing into the car. The engine rumbles to life, the steering wheel humming beneath his hands, and they head away from the gas station. By now, they know their way around town, and soon, the long highway through the forest spools out before them.

Dean rolls to a stop before the last stop light at the edge of town and turns the music up louder than Sam likes. A moment later, a black Camaro comes to a halt right beside them, and when Dean glances over, he sees Derek through the open window, wearing a leather jacket and dark aviator sunglasses. Derek looks over and locks eyes with him, and he feels a smile crawl across his face.

Keeping eye contact, Dean revs the engine and then revs it a second time. Derek’s face remains impassive beneath a layer of black stubble and sharp cheekbones, and Dean can’t tell what his eyes look like behind the sunglasses, but he revs his engine in reply.

“Dean, no,” Sam says, realizing what’s about to happen.

Dean ignores him. The light turns green, and he punches the accelerator.

The two black cars leap away from the white line on the pavement and charge down the highway. They dance with each other, pulling away and then dropping back, neither one of them able to gain the upper hand no matter how their drivers change gears or press the pedals to the floor. Dean cackles brightly and glances over to see a small smile on Derek’s face. He turns the music up until it pulses out into the night.

The two cars continue to gain speed and fight for dominance, and then disaster strikes. Dean spots flashing red and blue lights in his rear view mirror. “Shit,” he groans.

“I told you so,” Sam says.

Dean glares at him as he slows down and pull over to the side of the road. Derek comes to a stop just in front of them and turns off his car. Dean watches the cop step out onto the road and stride towards them, hands in their pockets.

Sheriff Stilinski’s face appears at his window, one eyebrow raised, and Dean smiles at him sheepishly as he rolls the window down. “Hi,” he says.

“Boys.” The sheriff sounds a little amused. “Would you mind stepping out of the car?”

“Sure.” Sam and Dean climb out into the night. Dean glances over at the Camaro just as Derek unfolds himself and stands up, tall and broad and lean. Dean can tell why Stiles likes him.

“Why am I not surprised?” Sheriff Stilinski sighs.

Derek walks up to them. “Is there a problem, Sheriff?”

“Really, Derek? Is there a problem?” the sheriff asks incredulously. “You two were just barreling down the road at nearly ninety miles an hour!”

“Really? It felt faster than that,” Dean says. Sam punches him in the arm.

Sheriff Stilinski slides his iron gaze over to Dean, and Dean quickly shuts up. The sheriff finally rolls his eyes and rubs at his chin. “Oh, I’m probably going to regret this. Look, since you’re both friends of Stiles, I’ll let you off the hook with a warning.” He stabs a finger into both of their chests. “Just don’t do it again.”

“Yes, sir,” Sam says.

Dean and Derek nod in agreement, shooting each other inscrutable looks. Dean offers Derek a smile, but it’s not returned. Derek goes back to his car, but as Dean moves to open his door, Sheriff Stilinski catches his arm. His eyes are ablaze with Holy Righteous Dad Fury. “If I ever catch Stiles, or even hear about him doing something like this, I’ll come down on you so hard that you’ll find yourself on the other side of the planet. Do I make myself clear?”

Dean gulps. “Yes, sir. Crystal clear.”

The sheriff releases his arm, and shaking, he clambers into the car. Sam already sits in the passenger seat, smirking wildly and unabashedly. “You’re afraid of the sheriff,” he says as Dean starts the Impala

“Did you see that angry dad look he gave me?” Dean retorts. “It was even scarier than looking Lucifer in the eye!” He watches as Sheriff Stilinski returns to his car and drives away, and then he follows Derek back to the house.

They pull up to the porch and step out onto the driveway simultaneously. Derek locks his Camaro and immediately heads for the front door, hardly looking at the brothers. Suddenly, Dean has had enough. He’s put up with Derek’s sullen silences over the past week, ignored his icy glares, but enough is enough. He and Sam have been good guests. They’ve made plenty of effort to engage with Derek, but each time he shrugs them off with maybe a monosyllabic answer.

“Hey, Derek,” he calls. Derek pauses and turns around. “What’s your problem with us?”

“Excuse me?”

“You heard me.”

“I don’t have a problem with you.” He moves his attention from Dean to the door of his house.

Dean pounds up the stairs and grabs his arm, pulling him to a stop. For a moment, he thinks he sees a flash of a bright red glow in Derek’s eyes, but then it and his angry expression are smoothed away. “Obviously, you do,” Dean says, a bit disconcerted. “You’ve been chilly towards Sammy and me every since we got here, you’ll barely give us the time of day, hell, you’ll barely even look at us!”

Derek sighs and pulls off his sunglasses. “You’re right. I have been discourteous, and I’m sorry, but you have to understand that I don’t trust easily. I’ve learned the hard way what can happen if you put your trust in the wrong person.”

“Look, man, we get that.” Sam moves quietly up the steps to stand by Dean. “We’ve seen more than our fair share of betrayal.”

Derek nods and runs a hand through his black hair. “I just need time, okay?”

“Sure,” Sam says, and Derek offers them a smile.

* * *

That weekend, Lydia barges into the Pack house and straight into the living room. She yanks Sam away from his chess game against Stiles by the back of his thick denim jacket and says, “We’re going shopping now.”

Sam looks around him wildly as a woman a foot shorter than him pulls him down the hallway, and he struggles to regain his balance. Dean and the rest of the Pack, all hanging around the house in various states of procrastination, watch in amusement, and even Derek cracks a smile.

“Uh, can I put my shoes on?” he asks when they reach the door.

Lydia releases her grip on his jacket and lets him stuff his feet into his heavy, dark brown work boots. Outside, Sam folds himself with some difficulty into her tiny, blue Prius. Even with the seat pushed all the way back, he doesn’t have enough leg room.

“Where are we going?” he asks as she does a neat U-turn and sets off down the driveway.

“Shopping,” she says brightly. She flicks a lock of red hair over her shoulder.

“Why?”

“I told you we were going to do this,” she reminds him, using her best sweetly venomous voice.

“I have clothes,” he protests.

She looks him over. Today, for once, he’s wearing a dark green t-shirt in lieu of plaid, but he still has blue denim on over blue jeans. “You have ugly clothes.”

Sam looks offended. “They’re sturdy clothes.”

“They’re ugly,” Lydia repeats.

“I have a few suits, too,” he says.

Lydia turns a corner and licks her lips. She would like to see that. She bets he looks damn good in a fitted suit, what with his broad shoulders and athletic build.

“This isn’t a discussion,” she tells him. “We’re going shopping.”

Sam sighs and settles back in his seat, arms folded.

“Cheer up,” Lydia says. “I have a great fashion sense.”

They arrive at the outlet mall ten minutes later, and Sam bangs his head on the door frame as he climbs out of the car. He rubs at the bump with a grimace, looking around the packed parking lot. “What’s it like being so tall?” Lydia asks. She leads the way towards the nearest clothing store, and she has to take two steps for his every one.

“Well, I can always reach the cookie jar,” he says.

Lydia laughs. “That’s a useful skill to have.”

Sam holds the door open for her, and they step into the well air conditioned store that smells like clean detergent, and Lydia looks around for the men’s section. When she spots it, she motions for Sam to follow her and prowls over, her hips swaying in her gauzy, dark blue dress. “Hold this.” She passes Sam her purse without looking at him, and he fumbles to take it.

“You’re a similar build as Derek,” she continues, half to herself, weaving in between the racks of clothing. She grabs a few different styles of jeans and some slim fitting t-shirts, draping them over her arm. She browses the button-up shirts – none of them plaid – and picks out a few different colors.

“Why isn’t Dean getting this special treatment?” Sam asks, sounding a bit petulant.

She gives him a sweet smile over her shoulder. “Because Dean doesn’t have an ugly plaid shirt for every day of the week.”

“Dean wears plaid, too!” Sam trips over the leg of a clothing rack and nearly knocks the whole thing over.

“Yes, but his plaid shirts aren’t ugly.”

They reach the dressing rooms, and Lydia takes her purse back from Sam in exchange for the stack of clothes. She nudges him towards the door. “Go change and then come back out so I can see.”

“I know my size,” Sam says, looking utterly bewildered.

Lydia gives him a scathing look that withers all resistance, and he slinks into the dressing room. Lydia leans up against a pillar to wait, examining her nails. The polish on her index finger is starting to chip. She’ll need to touch it up tonight.

Sam reappears, wearing a pair of dark jeans and a grey t-shirt. Lydia feels her face heat up as she looks him over. The fitted t-shirt shows off his chest and arm muscles and the taper of his waist, and the V-neck collar reveals his sharp collarbones. She holds up a finger for him to wait and then hands him a black blazer. Sam cocks an eyebrow but shrugs it on obligingly.

“I don’t know.” He tugs at the cuffs of the jacket. “I feel weird.”

“You look good,” Lydia promises. _Really good_.

When Sam turns around, Lydia notices that he has a great butt, and she goes back to examining to her nails so she won’t be caught looking. He returns to the dressing room and tries on the rest of the clothing, and Lydia gives everything her seal of approval. Finally, she finds him a stylish leather jacket, and they head to the register. Sam has changed back into his original clothes, and he slides a battered wallet from his back pocket. He tilts it away from her as he opens it, and hands the cashier a credit card. He signs the receipt with a loopy, illegible scrawl and takes the bag.

“I still don’t understand why this was necessary,” he says as they reach Lydia’s car.

“Just trust me.”

“I’m a mechanic.” He wedges himself into the passenger seat. “I don’t need nice clothes.”

She starts the car and backs up. “Everyone needs nice clothes.”

Sam sighs in defeat and rearranges the bag between his feet.

“Have you always been a mechanic?” Lydia asks. The steering wheel slides smoothly under her hands as the car rolls around a corner.

“No, I was pre-law for a while.”

She glances at him in surprise. She knows he’s smart; she’d heard him talking history with Stiles, but she hadn’t expected pre-law. “What made you stop?” she asks.

“I applied for law school at Stanford,” Sam says. “I actually got accepted, but that was right around the time that my dad got in trouble and disappeared. Dean came and got me so we could look for him.”

“Did you find him?”

“Eventually.” Sam doesn’t elaborate. He stares out the window, a distant expression on his face.

“Why didn’t you go back?” she asks, wondering if she’s prying too much.

Sam glances down at his hands and then back out the window. Anywhere but at her. “My girlfriend at the time, she, ah, died. Our apartment caught fire while I was gone. I couldn’t keep going to school and pretending everything was normal after that, so I left with Dean. Joined the family business.”

So that’s the death she feels hanging around him. And Stiles said his parents died, too. She’s amazed he still has such a kind smile after so much hardship and grief. Looking at him now, she can see the cracks in his façade, though they go even deeper than expected. She can’t see what’s underneath, though; he’s hidden parts of himself away beneath layers and layers of deflection and kind smiles.

Lydia finds that she wants to know what lies in Sam’s center. She wants to know how such a person can be so hurt and still be so caring, so kind. She plants her eyes on the rolling road so she won’t be tempted to keep looking at him. She’s never felt this way about someone before, not even Jackson, not even Stiles whom she had a brief crush on until she realized that he was completely head-over-heels for Derek. The road blurs before her eyes, merging with the edges of the buildings, and her hands stiffen around the steering wheel.

“Uh, Lydia? Where are we going?”

Sam’s voice breaks into her thoughts, and she realizes that she’s lost track of herself, just like she always does when her banshee senses take over. She shakes herself and glances around. They seem to be heading towards the school, and a deep, thrumming pulse drags her onwards that she couldn’t ignore even if she wanted too.

* * *

The rest of the Pack lounges around the house after Lydia drags Sam away. Dean challenges Boyd to a game of Halo and gets his ass handed to him as the rest of them watch, and Derek smiles a little – though he makes sure no one is looking first. He’s been destroyed in the game by every single member of the Pack, and no matter how hard Master Stiles tries to teach him, he never picks anything up.

“This is pitiful,” Stiles says eventually and takes the controller away.

Dean laughs and climbs up onto the couch, and Derek watches him out of the corner of his eye. He still doesn’t know what to think about the brothers. He actually had fun racing Dean the other day, and they promised to give him space, which he appreciates. But he still doesn’t trust them. Words are easy. Words are nothing. They’ve done nothing to earn his trust yet.

And if he’s being totally honest with himself, part of the reason he can’t accept the brothers is that he’s jealous. Jealous of Stiles’ obvious crush on Dean.

“We should go to a movie while Lydia tortures Sam,” Erica says. She lies with her head on Boyd’s lap, her long, blonde hair spilling across the floor.

The Pack is always up for an outing to the movie theater. After Stiles defeats Boyd, they all stand up and gather their things, stuffing feet into boots and arms into sleeves, and tumble out of the house. The two black cars sit in the driveway like lounging beasts.

“I hear you two got busted by the sheriff for drag racing,” Erica says with a delicious grin, looking between Derek and Dean.

Stiles’ eyes gleam in a way that makes Derek nervous. “We should do it again. I want to try.”

“No. No, no, no.” Dean holds up a finger to halt Stiles’ excitement. “Your dad said he’d come down on us hard so hard if he caught us at it again, and he’s fucking terrifying. He’s got this angry dad stare that could burn a person alive.”

Derek has seen that stare. Dean is right. It _is_ terrifying.

Stiles rolls his eyes. “Lame.” He jumps down the porch steps, narrowly avoiding a puddle. “Dean, I’m going to ride Derek this time.”

Derek feels a flush of pleasure run through him.

Dean flashes Stiles a thumbs-up, and Scott, Allison, and Isaac follow him to the Impala. Stiles quickly claims the Camaro’s shotgun seat, leaving Cora, Erica, and Boyd to cram themselves into the back.

Derek watches Stiles out of the corner of his eye as he turns off the drive and onto the highway, the Impala behind him. Stiles sits with one foot propped up on the dash, completely ignoring the thousands of times Derek has told him not to do that, his head tipped back against the seat. He catches Derek looking and grins that lopsided grin of his that always makes his stomach flutter. Derek quickly looks away, cheeks hot. In the back, the three Betas snicker.

They arrive at the movie theater, buy their tickets, and head inside, taking two rows for themselves. Stiles leads the way down one row, and Dean steps back so Derek can go in after him. Derek catches Dean winking at Scott. He settles himself into a seat, and Stiles offers him some of his popcorn, a large handful already stuffed in his own mouth. The movie starts a few minutes later, and Stiles’ leg falls against his, warm and heavy. Derek doesn’t move his leg away.

Derek wants to take Stiles’ hand, but he’s too afraid Stiles will reject him, will pull his hand away. So Derek eats his fistful of popcorn and keeps his hands to himself. He finishes the last kernel and reaches for the bucket, and his knuckles brush Stiles’. Instantly, an electric shock goes through him, and embarrassed, he quickly pulls away, having only claimed a few kernels of popcorn.

He doesn’t try for the popcorn again for the rest of the movie, just sits in frozen silence. Stiles’ leg leans against Derek’s until the final credits roll, and then he stands up, leaving Derek’s thigh cold.

They file out of the theater, and Scott catches Derek’s arm as they reach the lobby, pulling him to the side. He shows Derek his phone. There’s five messages from Lydia on the screen.

* * *

“Uh, Lydia? Where are we going?”

Lydia’s mind races. She can’t change direction, the death sense won’t let her, and she certainly can’t tell him what’s actually driving her onwards.

_Hi, Sam. Crazy story, but I’m actually a banshee, and I can sense death. Oh, and nearly all of my friends are werewolves. Sorry we didn’t tell you._

“Oh, didn’t I tell you?” She laughs. “Sorry. I forgot my Calculus textbook at school. I need to run and get it really quickly before we head back to the house. Is that okay?”

“Of course.” Sam smiles at her as he shifts to relieve his crushed knees.

They stop in the school’s parking lot, and Lydia climbs out of the car. “Why don’t you stay here?” she says. “It will only take a minute.”

“My legs are going to fall off if I don’t get out of this car,” Sam says with a laugh. “And I’d love to see your school. If that’s okay?”

The pull of the death sense won’t allow her time to argue, even if she could do so without arousing his suspicious. “Sure,” she says, and the death sense drags her up the steps. It leads her to the math wing and to a classroom halfway down the hall. She stares at the closed door.

“What is it?” Sam asks, eyeing her tense expression.

Lydia’s not sure how she’s going to explain this, but then she sees the dark red spots on the floor. She points to them. “Look.”

Sam crouches and dabs at one of the spots, rubbing the red liquid between his fingers. “It’s blood,” he says, looking up at Lydia.

She rattles the knob, but it’s locked tight for the weekend. Sam takes a slim, leather pouch from his pocket, opening it to reveal several slim strips of metal. He inserts two of them into the lock and jiggles them for a moment, and then the knob clicks and turns in his hand. Lydia stares at him. “Woah. Did you just…pick the lock?”

“Uh, I got bored one weekend,” Sam explains. He opens the door, and Lydia gasps when she sees what’s inside, her hand flying to her mouth.

A limp body lies sprawled across the floor, one pale hand pointed towards the desk. She can’t see their face, but their legs lie at an awkward angle, draped across each other in a way that belies sleep.

Sam steps slowly into the room and over to the body, kneeling beside it without touching it. Lydia walks after him on shaking legs. The boy’s face – one she has seen roaming the halls of the school – is completely colorless, the skin pulled impossibly tight across the skull so that the bones stand out in sharp relief. Black hair tumbles across his forehead. The boy no longer has a throat. It’s been torn out, but there’s not a drop of blood on the dark flesh. Lydia can see the white flash of his trachea.

“We need to call the police,” she chokes out.

Sam finds his phone and dials 911 while she steps out into the hall to call Scott. He doesn’t answer. She tries again. She gets his chipper voicemail.

“Hello?” she hears Sam say behind her. “I’d like to report a murder… At Beacon Hills High School… Yes, I’ll hold.” He sounds so calm. How can he sound so calm? Lydia wishes she could feel that way. She’s lost count of how many bodies she’s found in horrible situations, and she still panics every time. She calls Scott again. Voicemail.

“Sheriff?” Sam continues. “I’m at Beacon Hills High School with Lydia. We’ve found a body.” His voice sounds like it’s coming from very far away. “Yeah, we’ll wait here.”

She hears the door click shut, and then Sam touches her elbow. She jumps. “Sheriff Stilinski wants us to wait here. Are you okay?”

She wants to tell him yes. She wants to be hard and brave like Allison or Scott, but instead, she buries her face in his chest and lets him wrap his large arms around her.

 

Ten minutes later, the hallway is awash with activity. Police officers cordon off the area as CSI agents carefully photograph and map out the crime scene. Sheriff Stilinski takes Lydia and Sam off to the side so he can talk to them. Someone – she can’t remember who – wrapped a blanket around her shoulders, and Sam helps hold it in place with one arm. She leans against him, glad for the support, and lets him do the talking.

“Lydia forgot her math textbook,” Sam tells Sheriff Stilinski. “She saw the blood, so we went into the room, and that’s when we saw the body.”

“The room was open?” the sheriff asks.

Sam hesitates. “Well, not exactly.” Sheriff Stilinski raises an eyebrow. “I may have picked the lock.”

“It’s probably a good thing you did,” Sheriff Stilinski says after a moment, and Sam sighs in relief. “Otherwise, the body would have stayed here all weekend. Did you touch anything else?”

Sam shakes his head.

“Good. Alright, you two can go. I think I saw your friends outside.”

“Thanks, Sheriff.”

Sam guides Lydia away from the body and the last lingering remnants of the death sense which pulses weakly against her skull, unable to command her to do anything now that its source has been discovered. They go outside. The Camaro and the Impala are parked outside the police cordon, the entire Pack huddled around Derek’s car.

She lets Sam pull her over to them, and Allison immediately takes over, giving her a tight hug. She can’t return it because her arms are tangled in the blanket. Dean touches Sam’s arm. “Can I talk to you for a second?”

Sam nods, checks to make sure that Lydia is in good hands, and then follows Dean.

“What happened?” Scott asks as soon as the brothers are out of earshot.

Lydia takes a deep breath. “We found a body. Throat torn out, no blood.”

“Your banshee thing-a-ma-jig led you here?” Stiles sits on the hood of the Camaro, much to Derek’s annoyance.

“My death sense, yes,” she corrects him. “Something supernatural definitely killed him.”

Derek glances over at Sam and Dean who stand with their heads close together. “Their being here is going to make this a lot more complicated.”

* * *

“Dude, what happened?” Dean asks Sam as soon as their far enough away from the others.

Sam runs a hand through his hair. “Dead body.”

Dean curses. “What killed him?”

“It looked like a vamp. The throat was torn out, and there wasn’t any blood. But, I don’t know, it was like a vamp on steroids. The skin was completely pulled back across the skull like it had been withered or something.”

“I’ve never heard of a vamp doing something like that,” Dean says.

“Something supernatural definitely killed him,” Sam says.

“We never get a quiet, peaceful vacation,” Dean grumbles. He looks over at their new friends who stand clustered protectively around Lydia. “Their being here is going to make this a whole lot more complicated.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dun dun dun plot! I hope you enjoyed this chapter. Please feel free comment - I love hearing your thoughts on the story!


	10. Investigations

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry I'm so slow, guys. School and I've been dealing with some personal shit. But here's a long chapter. I hope you enjoy it.

Chapter Ten

Investigations

After a while, the police herd them off the school grounds, and they’re forced to return to Derek’s house. The Pack splits itself up between the Camaro and Lydia’s little, blue car. “We’ll catch up with you in a bit,” Dean calls to Stiles.

Stiles waves in acknowledgement before he climbs into the shotgun seat of the Camaro.

The ride home is silent and tense, and Stiles drums his fingers against his knee. He’s such a fool. He’d thought that just this once, he would have a nice, peaceful summer in Beacon Hills, but he should’ve known better. It’s like he’s a goddamn magnet for evil.

The Pack gathers in Derek’s living room. They sit down on the couches and chairs, but they don’t sprawl like they usually do. Lydia claims one of the armchairs, her feet tucked underneath her, the shock blanket still wrapped around her shoulders. Allison, Scott, and Isaac take up one couch, their hands linked, while Erica and Boyd sit on the other with Cora, leaving Stiles to perch on the armrest of Derek’s chair. He purposefully leans back so their shoulders are pressed together, and Derek’s forced to support some of his weight.

“First things first,” Derek says once everyone is settled. “Stiles, I think you should tell your friends to leave.”

“What? Why?”

“Why? Someone just died, Stiles. Their throat was ripped out, and their blood was drained. We can’t investigate and babysit your two giants.”

Stiles’ face falls. “Yeah, I guess you’re right. But how do I tell them, ‘hey, I think you should leave before something eats you’?”

“You say just that,” Derek says. “Except you leave out the part about getting eaten.”

“Maybe it doesn’t have to come to that quite yet,” Scott interrupts, seeing Stiles’ crushed expression. “I bet we can figure something out. One person can keep them occupied while everyone else investigates.”

Stiles perks up and grins. “Hey, that could work!”

Derek’s brow crinkles unhappily, but he doesn’t object.

“Lydia, you saw the body,” Cora says. “Do you have any idea what killed him?”

Lydia finally unfolds her legs and sits up, though she still looks shaken and pale. “I’ve never seen anything like it. The throat was torn out like with any werewolf attack, but there was no blood. With a werewolf, blood gets on every available surface. And this guy, I don’t know, it was like he had been drained.”

“Hang on,” Scott butts in, puzzled. “Are we talking about a _vampire_?”

“Do vampires even exist?” Allison asks. Everyone looks at Derek.

“I’ve heard rumors,” the Alpha says slowly. He’s so warm under Stiles’ shoulder. It’s a bit distracting. “But I’ve never seen any evidence.”

“Deaton said Sheriff Stilinski sent him the body to look at,” Scott says. “He’ll text me tomorrow with his findings.”

Derek nods. “That’s a good start. Isaac, tomorrow, you and I will go over to the school and see if we can smell anything. Stiles, can you start looking up whatever you can on vampires?” Stiles nods, already excited for the upcoming research project. “And Lydia, will you distract Sam and Dean tomorrow?”

She forces a smile. “I think I can manage that.”

“What about the rest of us?” Erica asks.

Derek taps his fingers against the armrest of his chair. “Search the woods. It’s a long shot, but maybe you’ll find something.” He stiffens, and Stiles sees his ears twitch. “They’re back.”

An instant later, Stiles, too, hears the drone of the Impala’s engine. Body turns the TV on to the news, and they all relax as if that’s all they’ve been doing since they got home. The engine cuts out, the door creaks open, and the brothers walk inside, pausing at the entrance to the living room. “Hey guys,” Dean says with a small smile. “Sammy and I are pretty tired. We’re going to head off to bed.”

They do look tired. They both have slight bags under their eyes, and their shoulders are hunched. Dean carries a small, green duffel bag in one hand. The Pack waves goodnight, and Stiles jumps up from his perch so he can hurry after the brothers. He catches Sam’s arm just before they can start up the stairs. “Hey, are you okay? That must’ve been way freaky.”

“You could say that,” Sam says, his eyes soft and sad. “But I’m okay, really.”

Stiles glances down at the ground. “I’d understand if you want to leave.”

“Of course not!” Dean lightly punches him in the arm. “What, are you trying to get rid of us?”

“No, no, definitely not!” Stiles replies so quickly that his voice squeaks.

If Dean notices, he doesn’t say anything. “Alright then. We’ll see you in the morning.”

As they head upstairs Stiles returns to the living room. The entire Pack grins widely at him. “You are a master of subterfuge,” Erica tells him.

“Oh, shut up,” he mumbles.

* * *

After the Camaro and Lydia’s blue car disappear, Dean and Sam drive in the opposite direction until they find a little, deserted park. The day is sunny and warm, so Dean is surprised to see the playground so empty, though he supposes word of the incident at the school must’ve gotten out and warded the parents off. He and Sam sit down at a picnic table beneath a wide oak tree.

“Dude, we just killed a vamp,” Dean sighs. “I was hoping we were done with them for a while.”

“I’m not sure it was a vamp,” Sam says. He stretches his long legs out across the ground and rests his elbows on top of the table.

“Then what the hell was it?” Dean demands, frustrated. Sam shrugs. “Damnit. I hate research.” He takes John Winchester’s leather journal from the inside pocket of his jacket and passes it to Sam. “Here, see what you can find in this. I’m going to call Cas.”

Sam nods, undoing the clasp on the front cover as Dean stands up and walks around to the other side of the oak tree.

Cas actually answers his phone. Dean is impressed. “What is the point of a speed limit?” Cas says in that gruff voice that Dean loves. “Why does anyone care how I drive? I’m an Angel of the Lord. I’m not going to get in an accident.”

Dean bites back a laugh, leaning up against the tree trunk. “You got pulled over, didn’t you?”

“Yes, and I think the police officer knew my ID was fake, because she tried to arrest me.”

“Did you use the one that says your name is Marty McFly?” There’s silence on the other line, and Dean sighs. “Dude, I told you not to use that one. It’s too obviously fake.”

“You told me to find a pop culture reference, so I did,” Cas says. Dean can hear the roar of the wind in the background.

He rolls his eyes skyward. “Yeah, but not one that obvious. You know what? Never mind. How did you get out of it?”

“I wiped her memory and drove off.”

Dean is still weirded out by all the things Cas can do, and he’s very glad the angel is on his side. “So where are you now?” he asks, turning around to check on Sam, whose head is bent over the journal in concentration. The wind plays with his long hair.

“I’m not sure,” Cas admits. For an all powerful angel, he has a horrible sense of direction.

“Well, I need you to hurry up,” Dean says. “A kid just died. We’re not sure what killed him, but it was definitely supernatural.”

“I’ll be there as soon as I can,” Cas promises and hangs up.

Dean returns to the picnic table. “Anything?” he asks Sam, dropping to the bench. Sam shakes his head. Dean sighs. It’s never easy.

They return to the Impala, and Dean sets off in the direction of Derek’s house. “We need to get a better look at that body.”

“How?” Sam asks. He’s still leafing through the journal. “The sheriff knows our faces. We can’t just suddenly become FBI agents.”

“We could break in.”

Their hi-jacked police scanner bursts to life before Sam can tell him the flaw in that plan, too. “Officer Thomas,” Sheriff Stilinski voice crackles through the speaker. “I need you to take that body on over to the veterinary clinic.”

“Why, sir?” a woman asks.

“I suspect an animal attack, but I want to know what the doc thinks,” the sheriff replies.

“Okay, sir, I’ll take it over now.” The radio falls silent.

Sam looks over at Dean and a smile crosses his face. “The vet doesn’t know us. We can talk to him tomorrow, get him to show us the body.”

They return to the Hale house, and Dean loads up a green duffel bag with their fake IDs, suits, and a few of the arcana books they stole from Bobby from the trunk. He also puts a vial of dead man’s blood and a machete inside just in case. It’s unlikely that the vamp will try to break in, but better safe than sorry. Besides, the thing might not even _be_ a vamp, so who knows what rules it operates by.

Stiles and the others are in the living room, watching TV. Dean grins when he sees that Stiles is practically lying on top of Derek. He’s noticed that Stiles likes Derek (and he suspects the feeling is mutual), and he wants to make sure they get together.

He would love to stay and hang with them, but he and Sam need to get to work. “Hey, guys. Sammy and I are pretty tired. We’re going to head off to bed.”

His new friends chorus goodnights as he leads Sam towards the stairs. He hears footsteps behind them, and then Sam is turned around by Stiles whose dark brown hair sticks up even more erratically than usual. “Hey, are you okay?” Stiles asks Sam. “That must’ve been way freaky.”

“That’s one way to put it,” Sam agrees, though Dean knows he’s not freaked out at all. The concern doesn’t leave Stiles’ face. “I’m okay, really.”

Stiles bites his lip and looks away, scuffing his socked foot against the floor. “I’d understand if you want to leave.”

Dean panics. They can’t leave now; they’d never be able to complete the hunt without revealing the truth. The world of demons and monsters is not something he wants to involve Stiles in. “Of course not!” he replies too quickly, then tries to cover it up with a joke. “What, are you trying to get rid of us?”

“No, no, definitely not,” Stiles says hastily, and Dean lets out a relieved grin.

“Alright, then. We’ll see you tomorrow.”

He and Sam hurry up the stairs and down the hallway to Sam’s room, locking the door behind them. Dean sets the duffel bag on the floor by the dresser, remembering not to drop it at the last second. They get going on their research right away. Sam types away at his laptop, taking advantage of Derek’s ultra-fast Internet, while Dean drops to the bed with the books and their father’s journal. But since they don’t really know what they’re looking for – whether it’s a mutated vamp or something else entirely – they come up with squat.

But they keep at it, long into the night, until Dean’s eyes are burning, and he finally throws the five-hundred-year old book to the floor. “This isn’t getting us anywhere. I think we need to wait until we see the body.”

“I agree.” Sam hides a yawn behind his hand. “It’s nearly 3am. We should go to sleep.”

Without brushing his teeth, without even bothering to change, Dean fall asleep right then and there. He just shuts his eyes and buries his head in the pillow, the books still open all around him.

Unfortunately, Sam wakes him up at seven the next morning. He yawns blearily and rubs at his eyes as he rises into a crumpled sitting position. “Why is it so early?” he mumbles.

“I thought maybe we could be out and back before the others wake up,” Sam says.

That makes sense, Dean supposes. Stiles and the others are all high school and college age, and kids like that like to sleep late. They should have a few hours to themselves. But that doesn’t mean Dean likes it.

They put on their suits, smoothing out the wrinkles in their shirts and making sure their hair looks professional. Dean tucks his pearl-handled pistol into the back of his belt, and the weight of it makes him feel fully dressed. He hasn’t been carrying since they arrived in Beacon Hills, not wanting to reveal the gun to Stiles or anyone else. That would be hard to explain.

Sam and Dean hurry downstairs on quiet feet, holding their dress shoes in their hands. Derek steps out of the door to the kitchen just as they reach it, coffee cup in hand, and looks them up and down, taking in their pressed suits with a raised eyebrow. “You two are up early.”

Dean curses to himself but shrugs nonchalantly. “Yeah. Got some errands to run.”

Derek’s face is unfathomable, and Dean finds it disconcerting that he can’t read him. “Running errands in suits?”

“Laundry day,” Sam says with a laugh.

“Ah.” Derek takes a slow sip of coffee. “What kind of errands?”

“Well, we wanted to keep it a surprise,” Sam sighs. “We decided to make dinner for everyone tonight. We’re off to the grocery store.”

“What are you going to make?”

“Don’t know yet. We thought we’d see what the grocery store has to offer.”

Derek looks satisfied and like he’s ready to leave, but then he pauses and studies them with a new intensity. “I thought you guys said you were going to bed early, but your light was still on when I went upstairs.”

“Oh, I had trouble sleeping,” Sam says. “We stayed up talking until I was tired enough. It took a while.”

Derek nods a couple of times, and then lifts his coffee cup as a sort of goodbye wave. “Well, don’t let me keep you from your errands.” He steps back to let Sam and Dean pass and then disappears into the living room as they stoop to put on their shoes. Dean shivers. He can’t figure Derek out. It’s like there’s something penned under his surface, wanting to get out.

The brothers walk out into the warm day, and Dean punches Sam in the arm as they head to the Impala. “Dude, what the hell? ‘We wanted to make dinner for everyone’? We can’t cook!”

“How hard can it be?” Sam asks.

Dean yanks open his door and drops into the driver’s seat. “We eat gas station or diner food for pretty much every meal. We’ve never cooked a day in our lives.”

“We’ll figure something out.” Sam flashes him that grin that’s supposed to convince him not to worry, everything will be fine, but Dean has seen the lie behind it too many times to be drawn in.

“When this blows up in our faces, just know that I told you so,” he says.

Sam rolls his eyes but drops the subject, keying the veterinary clinic’s address into his phone. The GPS takes them to a small brick building not far from the high school, and Dean parks out front.

The sign on the door says open, so they go right in. The reception area is small but friendly with pastel colored walls and comfortable looking couches. The desk to their right is empty, and a waist-high, wooden barrier shuts the back of the clinic off from the lobby.

“Hello?” Sam calls.

“Just a second,” a mellow, pleasant voice replies.

A moment later, a small, black man appears out of the back room, smiling at them in greeting. The overhead light reflects off his bald head, and there’s a tiny, triangular goatee on his chin. He wipes his hands off on his white lab coat as he steps up to the counter. “How can I help you gentlemen?”

“I’m Agent Fisher, and this is my partner, Agent Lucas,” Dean says in his gruffest voice. He and Sam flip open their fake FBI badges. “We’re here to see the body that was delivered yesterday.”

“Of course, right this way,” the man says. He pushes the door in the barricade open and gestures for them to come through. A strange tingle washes across Dean’s skin as he steps through the gap, goose bumps rising on his arms.

“Why did the sheriff send you the body, Dr….?”

“Deaton,” the man supplies. “He often sends me bodies that look like they might’ve been killed by animals, since that’s my area of expertise.”

The back room is quite a bit cooler than the lobby was, and metal cabinets line the walls. An examining table sits in the center of the tiled floor, the body a sheet covered lump on top of it. “Is that what you think it is?” Dean asks. “An animal attack.”

Deaton shrugs. “There’s not much else it could be.”

“Do you mind if we take a look?” Sam nods towards the covered body.

“Please, be my guest.” Deaton smiles at them again. The expression rivals Sam’s sincerest, most comforting look. He checks his watch. “Can you take it from here? I’ve got to make a call.”

Sam nods, and Deaton steps quickly out of the room. Sam picks the chart up off the table and flips through it quickly. “The victim’s name was Henry Bonds, 17 years old. It says he died of blood loss.”

Dean uncovers the head and shoulders of the dead kid and whistles. “That’s something else,” he says.

The body looks withered and desiccated like it’s been dead for a lot longer than just a few days. The grey skin is drawn tightly across the skull, and the eyes look ready to pop out of their sockets, the black hair like straw across the kid’s forehead. His mouth is twisted up in a perpetual scream of terror. The entire front half of his throat is gone, ripped away, the black flesh jagged and dry.

Dean checks over his shoulder to make sure the vet isn’t about to come through the door, and then snaps a picture of the body with his phone. “I’m going to go out on a limb here and say this wasn’t a vampire.”

“Agreed,” Sam says.

Dean reaches out a hand and touches the battered flesh of the throat. It’s as dry as a sheaf of paper. He wipes his finger off on Sam’s suit, much to Sam’s annoyance. “Maybe it’s a ghost?” Dean says.

Sam shakes his head. “I’ve never seen a ghost do this before. Hell, I’ve never seen _anything_ do this before. We should talk to Bobby.”

Dean covers the kid up again, and they leave the examining room. The same tingle runs over Dean’s skin as he crosses the barrier. Deaton stands behind the counter, and he’s just hanging up the phone as Sam and Dean enter. “Get everything you need?” he asks.

“We think so,” Sam replies. “Thank you.”

“Can I ask why the FBI is interested in an animal killing?” Deaton says just as Sam and Dean reach the front door.

“There have been a lot of weird deaths in this town lately,” Dean lies. “And we were in the area, so we were sent to do some digging.”

“And here’s our card,” Sam adds, holding one of their fake business cards out to Deaton. “Call us if anything comes up.”

Deaton takes the card with a smile. “I will.”

Sam and Dean leave the veterinary clinic and return to the Impala. Dean drives with one hand and calls Bobby with the other, putting the phone on speaker so Sam can hear, too. Bobby picks up after the third ring. “Let me guess, you’ve found a body.”

“Yeah,” Dean says. “How’d you know?”

“You’re in Beacon Hills. Of course you’ve found a body.”

“Bobby, we don’t need an ‘I told you so’ right now,” Dean says, sighing. “We need information. I’m sending a photo of the body. It’s weird.” With a few taps, he texts the picture to Bobby, the car hardly swerving even as the streets flash by at breakneck speed.”

Bobby whistles. “That is weird.”

“Do you know what it is?” Sam asks.

“I have a hunch. Let me do some digging, and then I’ll get back to you. Stay out of trouble, idjits.” He hangs up.

“Thanks, Bobby,” Dan says into the dead phone.

Sam loosens his tie and undoes the top button of his shirt. “So that’s taken care of for the moment. Now we just have to figure out how to cook.”

* * *

Derek settles into his armchair and props his feet up on the coffee table, the steam off his mug billowing up into his face. He feels uncertain. Some suspicion is telling him that Sam and Dean aren’t telling the truth, but they displayed none of the physical symptoms of lying while he talked to them. Their breathing and heart rate remained steady. They didn’t start to sweat. He doesn’t know what to make out it.

After an hour, he gets antsy, so he goes upstairs to wake Isaac up so they can get started. He has to promise the Beta donuts in order to placate him. Then, with coffee and a dozen pastries from a nearby shop, they head towards the high school in Derek’s Camaro.

“Sheriff Stilinski says the kid’s name is Henry Bonds,” Derek begins.

Isaac’s gasp interrupts him. “Henry Bonds?”

“Yeah. Did you know him?”

Isaac puts his chocolate donut back in the box. “He was in my math class.”

“What do you know about him?” They arrive at the school, and Derek parks in the back of the lot so the trees will hide his car from the main road.

“Not very much.” Isaac shrugs as he unfolds himself from the car. “He was quiet but nice. I think he was the photographer for the yearbook.”

“Can you think of anyone who would want him dead?”

“No, everyone liked him.”

They jog up the steps, and Derek uses a claw to unlock the side door. He’s always found the school eerie when it’s empty, though that might be due to the number of times he’s been stabbed, slashed, and just generally attacked while inside. The hallways are quiet and dark. The smell of lemon floor cleaner hangs in the air, not enough to cover up the scent of teenage bodies and hormones. The lockers march down the walls like metal sentinels, and some of them have paper sighs tapped to them, wishing their owners good luck with whatever event is happening this weekend.

Isaac’s phone rings as they step into the school, and he almost drops it as he digs it out of his pocket. “Hey, Scott.” He pauses to listen. “Okay, thanks. Good luck in the woods.” Isaac puts his phone away and turns his attention to Derek. “Scott says Deaton called. Cause of death is blood loss, and Deaton also found traces of a weird venom in the wound.”

“Venom?” Derek asks.

“Apparently.” Isaac shrugs. “But it’s not a venom Deaton recognizes. He’s going to see if he can dig something up on it.”

Derek is just glad it’s not kanima venom; he’s had enough of that to last a lifetime. “Good to know. So, where are we going?”

“Lydia says she found him in the math wing,” Isaac says. “That’s this way.”

Derek knows where the math hall is, but he lets Isaac lead the way, and after a few turns, they’re standing in front of a door marked with police tape. He carefully pulls the line of yellow plastic away and opens the door.

The smell of death sweeps over them. Isaac gags and claps his hand over his mouth, and Derek steps cautiously into the room. He moves to the center of the floor and takes a long, deep breath. He can smell death and fear. Sam and Lydia’s scents are there too, faintly. He can smell the police officers and the countless other students who have used this room, all faded now. Derek’s keen nose sifts through all the input, searching for something out of place.

He catches a whiff of charred cinnamon and molten metal woven together until they’re nearly indistinguishable, and the smell makes him sneeze. Eyes watering, he rubs at his nose. That won’t be a hard smell to recognize if he comes across it again.

“I don’t smell any blood,” Isaac says curiously.

Derek sorts through the various scents again, and he finds that Isaac is right. Henry Bond’s throat was torn out. The blood should’ve gotten on something – the floor, the air – and left a residue, but there’s nothing.

“Do you smell cinnamon and metal?” Derek asks, and Isaac nods. “That’s what we’re looking for. Let’s see if we can find a trail.”

They leave the classroom and shut the door behind them, though there’s no way to lock it again. There’s no trace of the scent in the hallway, so Derek motions that they should head outside and see if they can pick it up there. Side by side, he and Isaac hurry back towards the main foyer, and as they step out into the open space, another man appears out of the corridor across from them. He’s clad in a black suit and matching long coat despite the summer heat, and a perpetually annoyed, vaguely judgmental expression sits on his face. He smells of sulfur and a little bit of blood.

The man spots Derek and Isaac right away. “Can I help you boys?” he asks in a gravel-ridden voice. His hands are stuffed deep in his pockets.

“I forgot my notebook,” Isaac says sheepishly, grinning as he rubs at the back of his head.

“You’re Scott’s friends, aren’t you?” the man asks.

Derek likes this man in black even less than he likes Sam and Dean. There’s something oily in his smile, something dark about his eyes. And he can’t place the smell of blood; can’t tell if it’s old or fresh, can’t tell if it’s the man’s or someone else’s, can’t even tell how much of it there is.

“How did you know?” Derek asks, keeping the suspicion out of his voice.

The man laughs apologetically. “Oh, I’m sorry. How terribly rude of me. I’m Fergus Crowley. I’m dating Scott’s mother. I’ve heard quite a bit about you. You’re Derek and Isaac, I presume?”

“That’s right,” Isaac says. He favors Dr. Crowley with one of his puppy dog grins.

Derek has heard about this man from Scott – nothing bad, which makes him feel better, just a lot of stories about Scott’s perpetual, crippling embarrassment.

“And I met those two new ones the other week,” Dr. Crowley continues. This time, Derek picks up on a hint of annoyance. “Sam and Dean? Fascinating men. Have they told you about any of their hunting stories?”

That explains the smell of gunpowder. Derek shakes his head. “No, they haven’t.”

“Get them to tell you about San Francisco,” Dr. Crowley says. “That one was wild. I think they blamed it on the full moon.” There’s a knowing smile on his face, and he nods to the two of them. “Lovely to meet you, but I must be going. Have a good day, boys.”

He sweeps past them towards the front door, his hands never leaving his pockets.

“I don’t like him,” Derek says once he’s gone.

“I do,” Isaac says, grinning.

“But you like everyone,” Derek reminds him.

“And you dislike everyone, so I guess neither of us are good judges.”

Isaac has a point. They leave the school and scout around the area, searching for the smell of burnt cinnamon and metal, but there’s not a trace of it anywhere. Derek sighs as they return to the Camaro. “Let’s hope the others have had better luck than us.”

“You found that scent. That’s a clue,” Isaac says, always the optimist.

“It’s not much to go on.”

“It’s better than nothing.”

It’s impossible to be pessimistic in Isaac’s presence.

* * *

Lydia arrives at the Pack house to find Sam and Dean arguing in the kitchen about whether or not ‘bake at 350 degrees means they should press the convection bake button or just the regular bake button’. The countertops are laden with paper grocery bags and cooking utensils, but there doesn’t seem to be any semblance of order.

“What’s going on?” she asks, standing in the archway with a hand on her hip.

Sam spins around. He’s wearing one of the new shirts she picked out for him. “Lydia, hey. We didn’t hear you come in.”

“Are we supposed to set the oven to bake or convection bake?” Dean looks flustered and desperately confused, a printed recipe in his hands.

Lydia dumps her purse on an open patch of countertop as she walks over to them. “What are you trying to cook?”

“Chicken.”

“Then bake.” She’s not entirely sure if that’s correct, but Sam and Dean seem ready to accept anything she says as gospel truth. “What are you guys doing?”

“We thought we’d cook dinner for everyone tonight,” Dean says. He gives Sam a vaguely bitter look. “Except we don’t actually know how to cook.”

Lydia laughs. “How can you not know how to cook?”

“We spend a lot of time moving around,” Sam explains. He plucks the recipe from Dean’s fingers and looks it over, brow furrowed. “We’ve never really had a place to cook in.”

“Well, I’m not an expert, but I know a thing or two,” Lydia says. “Do you want some help?”

“That would be awesome,” Dean says, grinning.

First, Lydia shows them how to season the meat. The brothers seem to have bought an inordinately large amount of salt, but she makes sure that they don’t put too much on. The knife flashes easily in Dean’s hand, but chopping vegetables appears to be the only thing he knows how to do. Lydia watches him nearly dump an entire container of paprika onto the chicken not once but three separate times. She and Sam laugh at him when he asks what the hell is a sweet potato?

Though Sam knows his way around vegetables, he has no idea how to season, and Lydia literally has to take the salt shaker away from him and put it on the far side of the kitchen. “Hey!” he protests, laughing, and the skin around his eyes crinkles.

“You’re not getting this back,” she says, and she laughs, too.

They put the chicken in one pan and sweet potatoes covered in brown sugar in another, and then both dishes go into the oven. Dean sets the timer according to the recipe, and then they clean up the kitchen so Derek won’t kill them all when he gets home. Lydia checks her phone as they settle down in the living room, but there’s no news on the investigation.

They flop down on one of the couches, and Lydia makes sure to sit next to Sam, drawing her knees up under her so their legs touch. “So, Lydia,” Dean says. There’s something mischievous in his eyes. “Did you know that Sam is afraid of clowns?”

“Goddamnit, Dean,” Sam snaps, anger and annoyance flashing across his face. “Why do you always have to bring that up?”

“Because it’s hilarious.”

Lydia looks over at Sam. “You’re really afraid of clowns?”

He shifts uncomfortably and gives Dean another glare. “Yeah.”

“Why?”

“Let’s just say I’ve had some bad experiences with them in the past.”

Knowing he’s afraid of something as silly as clowns actually makes Lydia like Sam more. She’d been worried he was too perfect. “Everyone’s got to be afraid of something. It might as well be clowns,” she tells him.

“I’m not afraid of anything,” Dean says. He laces his fingers behind his head and kicks his feet up on the coffee table, looking smug.

Sam leans across her to punch him in the shoulder. “Need I remind you of the last time we went on a plane? You nearly had a full on panic attack.”

“I did not!” Dean snaps, swatting his arm away.

Sam grins widely. “What was it you said to me? ‘Why do you think I drive everywhere, Sam?’”

“You shut your mouth,” Dean threatens, stabbing a finger in Sam’s face.

Lydia giggles, and the sound surprises her. Sam grins down at her, and she wonders what he would say if she asked him out. She quickly shuts that thought away. Now’s not the time to be thinking about dating. They have a body and a mystery on their hands, and Sam and Dean will probably be leaving soon anyways. There’s no point even thinking about it.

The front door opens, and the entire Pack minus Stiles troops inside. Lydia notices the morose looks on their faces – and that tells her all she needs to know about how the day went – but they fold their mouths up into smiles when they see Sam and Dean. “Those are some nice pants, Derek,” Dean says by way of greeting, winking at the Alpha. “But they’d look better on my floor.”

There’s a beat of silence, and then the Pack howls with laughter. Lydia has never seen Derek’s face turn so red. His mouth drops open, and he splutters a few times, and Scott jumps to his rescue – sort of. He claps his hands on Derek’s shoulders. “Sorry, Dean. He’s already taken.”

“What? No, I’m not,” Derek says, shaking Scott off.

Scott gasps. “What? Don’t say that! What about Stiles?”

Derek fumbles for a comeback, but Allison beats him to the punch. “You’ll break his heart! If it comes to war between you two, I’m taking Stiles’ side.”

“Stiles and I–!” Derek tries again. “I don’t like Stiles!”

“Not at all?” Allison bats her eyelashes innocently even though Derek looks ready to strangle her. “Why do you hang out with him then?”

“You people are impossible,” Derek huffs. “I don’t have a crush on Stiles.”

Erica pats him on the back. “Just keep telling yourself that.”

The timer goes off in the kitchen, rescuing Derek from further embarrassment, and Sam and Dean hop up from the couch to go check on dinner. Lydia follows them to make sure nothing disastrous happens (and to make sure Sam stays away from the salt).

“Where is Stiles?” she hears Boyd ask.

“He’s probably wrapped up in his research,” Scott says. “I’ll call him.”

Dean opens the oven and prepares to pull the glass pan of chicken out with his bare hands, and Lydia quickly yanks him back, holding the oven mitts out with a sharp look. Embarrassed, he stuffs his hands into them, then fishes the pans out. She and Sam set the table, and once again, she’s amazed by his sheer and utter lack of knowledge. She lays her hands over his in order to guide him through the process of placing the silverware, and his hands are impossibly warm under hers. She blushes a little as she pulls away.

“Stiles isn’t coming,” Scott says, dropping his phone on the table. “He’s too engaged in his new research project.”

Dean bumbles out of the kitchen, attempting to carry both pans at once. “Research project? It’s summer!”

“Stiles is a nerd,” Scott explains with a laugh.

Everyone sits down and serves themselves, and Lydia is amazed that the food is more that palatable; it’s actually pretty good. “So, Scott,” Derek says. “Isaac and I ran into your mom’s new boyfriend today. What’s his name again? Dr. Crowley?”

Sam and Dean both choke on their beers.

“Ugh, don’t remind me.” Scott drops his head to the table with a groan. “I have to see him everyday. It’s _so_ weird.”

Derek looks over at Sam and Dean, and Lydia cringes. He’s got his Interrogation Face on. “He said we should ask you about some of your hunting trips, San Francisco specifically.”

“San Francisco?” Dean glances over at Sam, head cocked to the side. “When was the last time we were in San Francisco?”

“He said it was around the full moon,” Derek supplies.

“San Francisco was a few months after Dad died,” Stiles says, and recognition dawns in Dean’s eyes.

“Oh yeah! That was when you met Madison.” Dean punches Sam playfully and wiggles his eyebrows. Sam turns very red.

Lydia feels her stomach fall. “Who’s Madison?” she asks, keeping her voice light and unconcerned.

“The first girl Sam really liked after his girlfriend, Jess, died.” Dean takes another drink of his beer, discovers it’s empty, and looks down the neck with a betrayed expression on his face.

“What happened to Madison?” Erica asks with a smirk, batting her long eyelashes.

“We left, she stayed,” Sam says a bit abruptly. Lydia’s death sense tingles, awakened by the ghosts of the past. She sees a glimpse of this Madison and the shadows of several others as well, but they’re gone before she can get a good look at them. All the ghosts weigh Sam down, struggle to pull him into the ground, but somehow, he’s still so tall.

“What were you hunting?” Derek asks.

“Uh…elk,” Dean says.

 _Are there even elk in California?_ Lydia wonders. She doesn’t know enough about hunting to be able to say.

“Why did Dr. Crowley say it was wild?” Derek taps his fingers against the handle of his fork, and his pale, grey eyes never waver from Dean’s face.

Dean shrugs. If he notices Derek’s scrutiny, he doesn’t give any sign of it. “I mean, the full moon had the animals riled up a bit, but other than that, I wouldn’t say it was too weird.”

Dean’s phone rings before Derek can say anything else, and he smiles apologetically as he stands up to answer it. “Hello? Oh, hey, Cas.”

“Who’s Cas?” Cora asks Sam. Everyone in the room picked up on the way Dean’s voice changed when he said Cas’s name, even the non-werewolves.

“The guy Dean won’t admit to liking,” Sam says, grinning.

“Goddamnit, Cas, are you serious?” Dean demands. He’s moved down the hall a bit. “Well, how long will it take?”

Then Derek’s phone rings, too, but Derek is the kind of person who never answers his phone, so it just keeps going off. Sam shares a glance with Cora, who’s sitting directly across from him, and then with Lydia, and they both shrug. The ringtone shuts off, but a few seconds later, the blaring chime starts up again. Derek continues to ignore it.

“Oh my God!” Scott snaps. He drags Derek up out of his chair and fishes the phone from his pocket. “It’s Stiles.” He stuffs the device into Derek’s hand. “Answer it.”

Derek rolls his eyes and puts the phone to his ear. “Stiles?”

Stiles’ voice tumbles out of the speaker, too fast to follow. “We’ll be right over,” Derek says when Stiles finally shuts up.

“What’s going on?” Sam asks at the same time as Dean sits down. He leans over and whispers something in Sam’s ear that Lydia doesn’t catch, and Sam cringes. Lydia glances at the werewolves, wondering if they heard.

“Stiles has once again locked himself in his room on accident,” Derek lies smoothly. “And his dad’s at work, so he needs someone to come bail him out.”

“Dean and I can handle the dishes while you take care of that,” Sam says, already starting to gather up the dirty plates.

“Wait, but I want to know how you can lock yourself in your own room,” Dean says.

“It’s really not terribly exciting,” Cora assures him, flicking a lock of hair over her shoulder. “And if happens more than you’d think, so you’ll have another chance.”

Sam drops a load of plates into Dean’s hands, and the blonde man is forced to follow him into the kitchen.

The entire Pack files out of the house. If they were smart, they’d probably leave a few people behind – surely it seems odd that they need eight people to unlock a bedroom – but everyone wants to know what Stiles has found out. They separate themselves into Derek’s and Allison’s cars and move out.

“Did you hear what Dean said to Sam?” Lydia asks Derek. She’s sitting in the passenger seat of the Camaro, examining her nails.

“He said ‘Cas got caught up with a rugarou.’”

Lydia’s brow crinkles. “What the hell is a rugarou?”

Derek shrugs. “You got me.”

They arrive at the Stilinski house and let themselves in, tramping up the stairs to Stiles’ room. Sheriff Stilinski isn’t home; otherwise, he would be shooting them in the kneecaps for walking across his hardwood floors in their shoes. Derek knocks on Stiles’ door, and there’s a strangled shout of surprise from within. A moment later, the door opens and Stiles’ face peers out at them, unshaven and tousle-haired.

“Hey, guys, come in,” he says and steps back to let them in.

Stiles’ room is even more of a disaster than usual. The walls are covered in papers, printouts of web articles, scans or archaic books, and images both modern and old, all of them covered in Stiles’ chicken scratch handwriting. Red string crisscrosses everything, held down by tacks, and there’s so much of it that the room looks like it’s been decorated by overzealous Christmas gnomes.

The Pack barely fits within the tiny room, and Stiles stands on top of his bed so he can point and gesture emphatically as he talks. “Dudes, I know what it is!”

“Yeah, we gathered that already,” Cora says, rolling her eyes.

“How much coffee have you had?” Lydia asks.

Stiles ignores the question, so the answer is a lot. “It’s pretty obvious when you think about it. I mean, we talked about it yesterday. No blood, right?” The Pack stares at him blankly. “But I wanted to do some digging first, to make sure it wasn’t completely crazy. There are dozens of stories about corpses with their blood drained – all blamed on animal attacks. And then a few days later, more bodies show up with their heads cut off.”

“Oh my God, cut to the chase!” Erica interrupts. “What the hell is it?”

Stiles insists on pausing for one last moment of suspense. “It’s definitely a vampire.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, anyone want to take a guess as to what the big bad is?


	11. Sucker Punch

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When you should be working on your novel but instead you keep writing 6,000 word fanfic chapters.

Chapter Eleven

Sucker Punch 

The next day, most of Stiles’ friends have to go back to school for their last week of class, leaving him, Sam Dean, Derek, and Cora at the Hale house. For now, they’re lounging in the living room, and Dean somehow got roped into playing chess with Stiles. He’s getting his ass kicked. Sam, Derek, and Cora have already lost to the Stiles. The kid is a menace.

Once Dean loses (having only managed to take three of Stiles’ pieces, all of them pawns), they decide to go out to lunch. Dean and Sam follow Derek’s Camaro inyo town to a little mom and pop diner. After they park, Dean sidles up to Cora and holds out his arm. “You can call me the Enterprise, ‘cause I’m here to pick you up.”

Cora snorts, amused, but loops her hand through his elbow.

“Did you just make a Star Trek joke?” Derek asks, raising an eyebrow.

Dean ignores him.

Stiles laughs. “I’m going to have to remember that one.”

Sam holds the door open for everyone, and they file into the quiet restaurant. An old woman with a kind smile seats them at a table in the center of the floor, and they have to pull up a few extra chairs. They order an incredibly large amount of food. Sam is the only one who asks for something even remotely healthy. Dean competes with Cora to see who can eat the most pancakes. Cora wins; Dean doesn’t know how she does it or where she puts it since she’s stick thin.

Sam picks up the bill with one of his fake credit cards, waving away Derek and Stiles’ protests. Dean covers him as he scrawls a false name on the receipt, and then they leave the restaurant. Dean points at the door as they approach, winking at Cora. “See that door over there? Let’s go out.”

“Do you just keep a list of bad pickup lines in your head?” Cora asks him with a laugh.

“Actually, he has a little notebook in his back pocket,” Sam says.

Dean swats at him, and Stiles slips forward, sliding his hand into Dean’s pocket. He comes up with a little, black notebook. Dean lunges after him, desperate to snatch the book out of Stiles’ fingers, but Cora holds him back. “If you wanted a feel, you could’ve just asked,” Dean says to Stiles, and Derek is the one who turns red.

Stiles flips through the notebook, and Dean hopes his horrible handwriting is enough to deter him, but the kid laughs. “’Are you an alien? Because you just abducted my heart.’ Oh my God, these are terrible.”

Dean finally manages to snatch his notebook back, and he quickly stuffs it away, face flaming. “You’re such a dork,” Stiles tells him, grinning.

“Everyone knows this,” Sam agrees.

“Hey, I’m super cool!” Dean protests, but no one pays him any attention as they head towards the cars. “I’m super cool,” he repeats.

“Dude, you’ve seen every episode of Star Trek ever made,” Sam says, yanking the Impala’s door open.

“Yeah, well, you listen to history podcasts, so who’s the real dork?”

“I love history podcasts!” Stiles pipes up.

“Case in point,” Cora says.

Next, they go to the library. Stiles says its fun to wander around and browse as a group, and no one else has a better idea, so they agree. There’s not much parking around the brick building, so Dean has to break away from the Camaro to find a spot down a side street.

He and Sam slam their doors shut, and he feeds some coins into the meter. Side by side, they hurry around the corner. Stiles and the others pile out of the Camaro, having found a much better parking spot, and just then, a trio of men steps out of the store beside the library.

They look to be about Derek’s age, around the same age as Sam, a few years older than Stiles. They all wear leather jackets and battered jeans, their hair cropped close to their heads, and Dean spots the familiar bulge of concealed weapons. His eyes narrow.

“I see you’re back in town, Stilinski,” the middle man says as Dean and Sam arrive. He does not sound friendly at all.

“Congratulations, you have eyes,” Stiles replies, bored.

The man’s eyes harden above his poorly healed broken nose, and his burly friends snarl in unison. “I don’t like your tone, faggot. Remember what I said I’d do if I saw your face again–”

Stiles’ mouth opens with a pithy reply to cut the man off, but Dean gets there first. He reacts without thinking, too much anger in his head to leave room for rational thought. His fist re-break’s the man’s nose, sending him reeling. His two cronies shout angrily.

The man recovers quickly, Dean will give him that. He comes back swinging, but Dean catches his arm with his own, slamming his other fist into the man’s stomach. He doubles over, and Dean kicks the left-handed crony’s knee out from under him as he tries to come to his friend’s defense.

Leftie collapses, and Dean grabs the leader by the lapels of his jacket, heaving him into his third friend so that they both crash into a nearby car. The leader seems ready to climb back to his feet – tenacious bastard – so Dean clocks him on the chin when the angle is right, knocking him out cold.

Dean huffs heavily as he steps back, yanking the hem of his jacket straight. The two cronies stare at him with wide eyes, and he glares back, prompting them to gather the other man up by the arms and scurry away. Dean turns around, gathering his anger back under control, and finds everyone aside from Sam staring at him with open shock.

“That was…awesome!” Stiles yells and leaps forward to throw his arms around Dean’s neck.

Dean’s heart jumps, startled, and he awkwardly pats Stiles on the pack.

“You took those three guys down,” Derek says, impressed. “In five seconds. When did you learn to do that?”

“Our dad taught us both when we were young,” Dean says. He nods at Sam.

“I’m impressed,” Cora says, looking Dean up and down with a flirtatious grin. He winks back at her.

“Who were those guys?” Sam asks. The leather clad trio finally turns the corner and disappears, the other pedestrians staring at them as they drag the unconscious man between them.

Derek leads the way towards the library’s sliding glass doors, his back to Sam and Dean as he talks. “They’re, ah, from out of town. They come a couple of times a year to go hunting. We – Stiles in particular,” Derek shoots Stiles a glare, “got into a bit of an altercation with them last time.”

“I hate the word faggot,” Dean growls. The glass doors slide open to admit them into the well air-conditioned library, and the dry scent of books envelops them. The anger is still there, simmering beneath the surface. He’s had run-ins with homophobes in the past. And with bi-phobes, both in the straight and the gay communities. He’s tired of it.

When Derek turns to look at Dean next, some of the constant suspicion has gone out of his eyes, and he actually smiles when he meets Dean’s gaze. They walk through the sensors into the library. “Maybe you could show me a few moves sometime,” Stiles says, looping his arm through Dean’s.

“Sure,” Dean agrees.

They wander through the shelves for about an hour, pulling books down and leafing through them. Stiles gives Sam a list of recommendations ten books long, and Dean makes a note of a few. He likes to read, too, it’s just that he’s cultivated an image of someone who doesn’t, so now people make fun of him.

Three o’clock rolls around, so they go to the high school to meet Scott and the others. They find parking spots near the front doors, and Dean leans up against the hood of the Impala, ankles and arms crossed in his standard cool man pose. Sam’s on his phone, no doubt still searching for clues about their monster.

Derek sidles up to Dean, hands stuffed in his pockets, and scuffs his feet. He clears his throat. “I, uh, thank you for what you did back at the library.”

“I hope I didn’t make things worse,” Dean says. The sun beats down heavily on his shoulders, so he shrugs his leather jacket off, revealing the swirling tattoos on his arms. “I just kind of reacted without thinking.”

Derek waves his hand dismissively. “We know how to handle them. Stiles can rip people apart with his tongue. He would’ve handled them even if you hadn’t stepped in.”

They stand in silence for a minute or so, watching the still school. In just a few minutes, students will come streaming out of those doors like a never-ending tide. Dean remembers that feeling of joy and freedom from his intermittent and boring days in school.

“Look, I’m sorry for being a dick,” Derek says. “I – we’re all very protective of Stiles. I also don’t like strangers. I was worried you’d hurt him.”

Dean doesn’t tell him that he’s right to worry; Dean tends to bring death and destruction down on all those who get too close to him.

“But after seeing you stand up to protect Stiles like that…” Derek hesitates. “I was wrong. And I’m sorry.”

“It’s cool, man, really,” Dean says, smiling at the black-haired man. He sticks out his hand, and Derek shakes it, his palm rough and calloused.

“Also, will you stop flirting with me?”

“Yeah, that’s not going to happen.”

The final bell of the day rings, and within seconds, kids come pouring out of the doors, backpacks slung over their shoulders in various states of disarray. Scott swaggers out into the sunlight with his arms slung around the shoulders of Allison and Isaac. Lydia is just behind them, on her phone, and Dean glances over just in time to see Sam’s face turn red. He smirks to himself.

Scott spots them right away and leads the others over. “What up?” he crows, lifting a hand to give Stiles a high five.

“Dean punched a guy!” Stiles announces proudly.

Allison’s jaw drops as she looks at Dean, then she grins. “Seriously?”

“Actually, it was three guys,” Cora corrects. “He threw two of them into a car.”

“Holy shit!” Isaac says, a broad, impressed grin on his face.

Derek cracks a few of his knuckles like he wishes he could’ve gotten a chance to use them. “It was the Shay hunters.”

Lydia, Scoot, Isaac, and Allison grimace and cringe, sneering, at the name. Scott even spits on the ground. Dean can tell there’s more to the story than a simple run-in, however unpleasant, but if no one’s going to volunteer the information, he’s not going to press. He knows what it’s like to have things you’d rather have left secret.

“Where are Erica and Boyd?” Sam asks as they begin to split themselves up between the cars.

“It’s date night,” Lydia says. “They ditched seventh period to head out of town.”

They return to the Hale house, and Dean is made to reenact the entire fight using Derek, Stiles, and Sam as props. One of the couches serves as the car. The others applaud wildly when he finishes, and Stiles links arms with they other so they can bow.

“We should have a giant sleepover,” Scott says as the actors collapse, laughing, to the couch. “A giant sleepover with a blanket fort and shitty food and lots of movies.”

“Don’t you have school tomorrow?” Stiles reminds him with a mocking grin.

Scott flaps a hand dismissively. “Eh, it’s the last week. No one really cares anymore.”

Isaac looks at his phone, struggling to disentangle himself from Scott and Allison in order to do so, and then makes a slight face. “I have to meet with my math partner, Elena, in ten minutes. Scott, will you take me over to her house?”

Allison catches his hand and won’t let him leave. “Will you be back for the sleepover?”

“Wouldn’t miss it.” Isaac drags her hand up so he can kiss it, and then she lets him go.

“Back in a jiff,” Scott says, and he scoops his bike helmet up off the floor as he stands, leading Isaac towards the door.

* * *

Isaac clings to Scott’s waist as they swerve through the streets. Scott doesn’t have another helmet, but Isaac’s head is hard enough that he should be fine if they crash, though Scott’s werewolf reflexes will make sure that they don’t. Isaac feeds him directions, and they find themselves in the newly built, suburbia part of Beacon Hills. Rows of houses that are all different yet all the same circle endlessly on either side of them. Perfect, green trees line the sidewalks and break up the glistening, manicured lawns. Scott shudders. It’s as if everything has been put under a glass dome. He sees no toys strew across the grass, no personal touches on the houses, just washed cars and timed sprinklers.

“Turn right,” Isaac says, and Scot guides the bike around the corner. They stop at the last house on the block, a white, two-story building with wide windows across the front and a blue door. The bushes are clean, rounded squares. Isaac hops off, kissing Scott on the cheek of his helmet, then bounces up the front walk to ring the doorbell. Scott kicks down the stand on his bike to wait and make sure Isaac gets inside.

The door opens to reveal a tall, tan man with wire-rimmed glasses and neatly combed hair. Scott’s werewolf hearing picks up the conversation as if he were standing right there. “Hello, sir,” Isaac says, all charm. “I’m here to see Elena. We’re doing a math project together.”

“Yes, she told me,” the man replies. “Unfortunately, she’s feeling under the weather right now. Her phone is broken, so she asked me to tell you that she won’t be able to work today, and she’s sorry.”

“Oh, that’s okay.” Isaac beams up at the man. “I hope she feels better.”

The door closes, and Isaac hurries back down the sidewalk, shrugging as he reaches the bike. “I guess I don’t have to do any homework today after all.”

He hops onto the seat behind Scott, but before Scott can put the bike in gear, Isaac stiffens, nose tipped into the air. “That’s it. That’s what we smelled at the school!”

Scott rips his helmet off to free up his nose and takes a deep breath. The cinnamon and metal smell that Derek described comes to him like a gentle wave, wafting in from the right. “Hold on,” he growls, adrenaline making his eyes glow red. The bike leaps away from the curb with a squeal of rubber.

The wind tears the smell away almost before he can catch it, but he’s still able to follow it through the streets and out of the suburbia. The bike whines as he forces it to go faster than it’d like, and Isaac’s breathing is loud and excited in his ear.

“That way!” Isaac has spotted something Scott hasn’t so he follows the direction, tipping the bike to the left.

And then he sees it, too, a flash of movement between the houses, to fast for any details. The thrill of the chase takes over, and he and Isaac leap from the bike without stopping, the familiar prickle of the change rushing through Scott’s body as he lands. He takes off running, his vision sharper, his hearing picking up every shift in the wind, his nose a second pair of eyes. The burnt cinnamon and metal smell is almost overwhelming.

He leaps a wooden fence into a backyard, Isaac right behind him, and follows the scent trail towards a set of trees. The brown trunks flash by, and he spots glimpses of the blurred shape, moving as fast as they are. He pushes himself to greater speeds, his feet barely touching the ground. If they are where he thinks they are, then the creature is heading towards a dead end, and he and Isaac will be able to trap it.

The trees end, and so does the land, a cliff dropping fifty feet into the river before them. Scott’s brow furrows; there’s no one else in sight.

Then something hot and heavy slams into his chest, sending him flying backwards twenty feet until he slams into and through the trunk of a tree.

“Scott!” Isaac yells.

Scott shakes his head to clear it. The sharpness is gone from the world, faded back to human levels, the shock and the pain of landing having forced him to change back. He staggers upright. Several of his ribs are broken, though he can already feel them knitting back together inside of him.

He runs – well, more like stumbles quickly – back to the edge of the trees. “Where’d it go?” he wheezes to Isaac.

Isaac shrugs helplessly. “It took off towards the cliff and jumped after it hit you.”

“Did you get a look at it?”

“No, it all happened so fast. It has glowing red eyes, though.”

“Damnit,” Scott sighs. He looks over the edge of the cliff, but all he sees are the swirling waters of the river. “Come on. Let’s go back to the Pack house.”

“Aren’t werewolves and vampires supposed to be mortal enemies?” Isaac asks as they head back towards the bike.

“You’d have to ask Stiles,” Scott says.

He’s tired. The past week has been a deluge of non-stop finals. And graduation is in just a few days. Soon, Beacon Hills will be flooded with out-of-towners, family members come to see their kin walk across the stage. There can’t be a monster roaming the streets when that happens.

They find the bike where they left it, tipped over on its side. Scott’s ribs protest as he bends over to pick it up, but he ignores them, and they’re quiet by the time he and Isaac reach the Pack house.

Isaac grabs his arm before he can mount the steps. “Dean and Sam are still here. How do we tell the Pack what happened without them hearing?”

But Stiles flings the door open and rushes out, solving that problem. “My dad found another body.”

“When?” Scott demands. If that thing killed someone because they couldn’t catch it…

“About an hour ago.”

Relief floods Scott. Before they caught sight of it. “Where?”

“Near the school again.”

“We saw it, Stiles,” Scott says. “In the new suburbia area. We gave chase, but it got away.”

Stiles’ eyes widen. “What did it look like?”

“It had red eyes,” Isaac says. “But other than that it was moving too fast to get a good look.”

“And it’s strong,” Scott adds. “It threw me through a _tree_.”

“Damn.” Stiles whistles.

Derek steps through the door and nudges Stiles to get everyone’s attention. “Sam and Dean are gone.”

“Gone? What do you mean gone?” Scott demands.

Stiles looks past him to the row of parked cars. “The Impala is still here.”

“Well, they’re not,” Derek says, and Scott follows him inside. “We were all in the living room, and Sheriff Stilinski called just before you got here. We got distracted, and then they were just gone.”

“How do two very large men sneak past a pack of werewolves?” Stiles wonders, and Derek can only shrug.

“Should we try to track them?” Scott asks.

“We can’t. Their scent is everywhere since they’ve been here so long. It’s impossible to pick up the new trail.”

“We could call them,” Isaac says, and Stiles digs his phone out of his pocket. They move into the living room to wait for it to finish ringing. The rest of the Pack is there, perched tensely on the couches.

Stiles lowers the phone and shakes his head. “Line is busy.”

“This is good,” Allison says. “If they’re gone, we can go hunting without having to worry about them.”

As strange as it seems to leave without knowing where Sam and Dean are, it’s the best thing to do. They need to find this monster – this vampire – and they need to do it quickly.

“Both bodies have been found at or near the school,” Derek says, voice filled with the authority of the Alpha. “So I think it’s safe to assume this vampire – or whatever it is – makes its lair near there.”

“We chased it through the suburbia, and it jumped off a cliff into the river,” Scott says.

Derek nods, taking in this new information. “Stiles, Allison, and Lydia, head over to the school and see what you can find. Scott and Isaac, find a way down to the river and try to pick a trail. Cora, you and I will sweep these woods just in case it’s doubled back.”

“This thing is really fast and really strong,” Scott adds, the protective instincts of the Alpha welling up inside of him. “If you find it, don’t attack on your own. We still don’t know what it’s capable of.”

* * *

Derek watches as Stiles, Allison, and Lydia climb into the death trap that is Stiles’ car and as Scott and Isaac peel away on Scott’s bike. Cora stands beside him, adrenaline and excitement rolling off her in waves. “Let’s get going,” she says. “I want to fight a vampire.”

Derek nods, and they set off. They move through the woods for an hour, steadily making their way towards the school, noses on high alert. Cora says they should split up, cover more ground, but Derek shakes his head. Better to stick together in case they do come across this monster.

They’re about two miles from the school when Derek picks up the smell of burnt cinnamon and metal, and it smells fresh. He freezes, motioning for Cora to do the same, and then zeroes in on the scent until he’s wholly focused on it and nothing else.

He lets the scent trail pull him along, moving carefully and quietly through the trees. His heartbeat is as steady as a rock, his every sense heightened.

A bush rustles to his left, and the burnt cinnamon and metal smell flares hotly. Derek, without making a sound, shoots towards it. Cora is a split second behind him. He explodes through the bushes, finding the other side empty but seeing a shape blur between two trees. He glimpses a ruddy brown color and a streak of glowing red.

Derek and Cora pursue the vampire, running as fast as they can, but Derek can tell the creature is pulling away from them. The trees flash by, the ground dips and sways beneath their feet, and Derek tips his head back to howl to the rest of the Pack. The burnt cinnamon and metal smell is all around him, practically clogging up his nose, and he sends a surge of strength through his legs, begins to draw away from Cora, begins to close on the creature.

A gunshot rings through the forest. Something slams into Derek’s side. It carves a hot trail through his flesh. The next second, the pain hits, and he falls, crashing to the ground. He can feel a wetness spreading through his shirt, and his whole torso is on fire, his vision swimming.

Cora’s hands turn him over, and her face appears above him. “Oh shit, oh shit.”

“I’ve been shot,” he says, blinking.

* * *

_Thought you morons might like to know they’ve found another body._

The screen of Dean’s phone holds a text from Crowley. It’s signed with the grinning, purple devil emoji. He shows Sam just as Stiles’ phone rings, and everyone else focuses their attention on him as his face goes from one of greeting to one of horror.

Sam jerks his head at the open window behind them. They’re at the back of the group, so it’s easy enough to slip off the couch and through the open square, dropping lightly to the ground. They pause beneath the windowsill for a moment to make sure no one’s going to notice their escape. Then they creep towards the front of the house, bent almost double.

Sam starts to poke his head around the corner, but Dean yanks him back at the last moment, having heard the whine of Scott’s bike. He hears the engine cut out, hears Stiles’ jumbled voice on the porch, but their conversation is too low to make out the actual words. Dean and Sam crouch in tense silence for a minute before they finally hear footsteps heading back inside.

With Sam leading, they run to the trunk of the Impala, still low to the ground. Dean pops the trunk and then the false bottom, propping the panel up with a sawed-off shotgun. They grab two of the extra machetes, hiding them within their jackets, and Dean makes sure he has an extra clip for his gun. Then he shuts the trunk, and as they hurry for the cover of the trees, he calls Bobby.

The phone rings and rings but goes to voicemail. “Bobby, pick up, damnit,” he says as if that will somehow work. “There’s another body. We need to know what the hell we’re up against. Call me back as soon as you get this.” He hangs up with a frustrated sigh. “Bobby picked a hell of a time to step away from his phone.”

“Call Crowley.”

“Why the hell would I call Crowley?”

“He texted us about the body. Maybe he knows something else.”

Dean kind of hates that he has the King of Hell in his contacts, but he also thinks it’s kind of cool. He taps on Crowley’s name and puts his phone on speaker so Sam can hear, too.

“What?” Crowley snaps.

“Do you know what’s killing people?” Dean asks.

“Of course.”

“Are you going to tell us?”

“Of course.” Crowley stops talking, and they stare at the phone, expectant. “Oh, I’m sorry. I meant of course not.”

Dean grinds his teeth together and nearly throws his phone into a tree.

“Then why the hell did you text us about the body?” Sam demands, seeing Dean’s anger and knowing what will happen if he tries to speak.

“Because I enjoy watching you scurry around like eager, little mice.”

They come to the road and then turn towards town, walking as fast as they can. “If you know who the killer is, why haven’t you stopped them?”

Dean can practically hear Crowley’s eye roll. “King of Hell. Not my problem.”

“Aren’t you worried about Melissa?” Dean says.

Crowley is silent for a long time. “I can protect her.”

“You don’t sound so sure.” A grin spreads across Dean’s face. He’s finally found Crowley’s weakness, and he intends to exploit it as fully as he can. “Help us kill this thing. So she can be safe.”

“I can’t be seen with you,” Crowley says.

Dean doesn’t want to be seen with Crowley either.

“Then just tell us what it is,” Sam suggests in his everything-I-say-is-reasonable voice. “We’ll do the rest.”

Crowley is silent again. Sam and Dean step off the road to let a car whizz past. “I…may have lied about knowing what the monster is,” the King of Hell says finally, and Dean wishes he were in the same room so he could pummel him. “I wanted to annoy you.”

Sam puts his hand on Dean’s shoulder and gives him a look, telling him to calm down. “Then just pop us over to the school. We can’t get to our car right now.”

Crowley appears beside them. “That I can do.”

With a snap of his fingers, the world goes black. Dean hates this feeling, this feeling of being taken apart so you can be squeezed through the molecules of the world and then be put back together on the other side, just hoping you’ll be re-made correctly.

Then they’re standing near the site of the newest body, hidden from the buzzing police officers by a large oak tree. The police are focused around one house on the quiet street, going in and out the front door in a constant flow. There’s an ambulance and a coroner, and Dean spots Sheriff Stilinski through the window of the house. He looks haggard and tired.

“It’s too bad we can’t just walk right in with our FBI badges,” Sam says with a sigh.

Crowley disappears without warning, and Dean clenches his fist. It’s kind of cute when Cas does it, but it’s definitely not amusing when it’s Crowley. “I’m going to kill him,” he says.

“I’ll help,” Sam agrees.

Then Crowley’s back, examining his nails with a bored expression on his face. “There’s no one in the room with the body right now. Come on.” He grabs them both by the shoulders, and the blackness sets in again.

A moment later, they’re standing in a small bedroom with pale blue walls and posters of flowers. A girl Scott’s age lies on the bed, eyes staring vacantly at the ceiling and her throat torn out just like the other body.

“You gotta give a person some warning, damnit,” Dean snaps.

Crowley shushes him. “Just do your Nancy Drew thing or whatever.”

Sam and Dean approach the body, leaning over it, careful to make sure they don’t touch anything. Once again, there’s no blood, just the dark, jagged flesh, and the withered, dry skin. As Sam continues to examine the girl, Dean takes a look around the room. On the desk, he sees the same math textbook that Isaac likes to toss around carelessly.

“I wonder if the monster is a high school student,” Dean muses. “Both victims are teenagers, both found at or near the school.”

“Isaac knew the first victim, right?” Sam asks.

Dean nods. “He said they were in the same math class.”

“We should see if she was, too.”

“Someone’s coming,” Crowley interrupts. “Time to go.” He grabs Sam and Dean by the wrists, and then they’re standing behind the oak tree again. Dean has the sudden desire to throw up. He’s been unmade and re-made too many times in a row for his liking.

Stiles’ battered blue Jeep rattles up to the curb, and he hops out with Lydia and Allison. Dean and Sam duck further behind the tree. Sam’s face is red again. Grinning, Dean nudges him. “Someone’s got a crush.”

“Shut up.” Sam shoves his hand away. “No, I don’t.”

“Focus,” Crowley snaps, and Dean coughs into his hand.

Sam and Dean return their attention to the street. Stiles is talking seriously to his father, and then the four of them disappear into the house. Dean frowns. Why would Sheriff Stilinski take three teenagers to see a dead body?

When he turns tot talk to Sam about it, he finds that Crowley is gone. At the same time, he sees a pair of glowing, red eyes peering at him from out of the shadows of the forest. “Sammy, looks,” he whispers, frozen.

Sam spins around slowly, noting the tense edge in Dean’s voice. His eyes widen when he sees the glowing orbs, and he carefully pulls his gun out of his belt. “Do you think that’s it?” he asks in a low voice.

“What else can it be?”

“What do you want to do?”

The glowing, red eyes disappear. “Don’t let it get away!” Dean runs towards the trees, drawing his pistol from the back of his belt.

They plunge into the forest, and Dean searches around for any sign of the creature. There’s a print in a patch of mud that looks like a hoof, and he heads in the direction it points. He catches a whiff of cinnamon and something metallic, and he sees movement between the trees. He lifts his gun as he runs, but the shadow is gone as quickly as it came.

“Fuck!” he yells, coming to a halt. The creature is gone, too fast for them.

Sam pants as he looks around. “What the hell is it? Drinks blood, has hooves. What are we dealing with?”

“Hell if I know.” Dean shrugs.

They walk a little further into the woods, hoping to find some other clue, something that will lead them to the creature before another person dies. They come to the top of a small rise, a ridge that looks over the next section of the forest.

Something howls within the trees, and the sound reverberates off all the trees, rattling Dean’s teeth in his jaw. Instinctively, he snaps his gun up. There’s more movement in the trees below, coming towards them and coming fast. He sights down the barrel. Maybe they can’t keep up on foot, but there’s no way it’s faster than a bullet. The shadow appears between two trees. Dean judges its trajectory and speed, aims at the next spot it should appear, and pulls the trigger.

The sound of the gunshot cracks and echoes through the forest, deafening in the silence of the trees. “You idiot!” Sam yells. “There are a bunch of cops nearby!”

“I hit it!” Dean insists.

“No, you didn’t! That was a werewolf call, not whatever we’re hunting! We have to get out of here!”

Dean yanks his arm away as Sam tries to grab him to lead him away. “We have to go investigate.”

“No, we have to leave before we’re arrested. We’re not equipped to deal with a werewolf, and there’s probably more than one of them. Time to go.”

As if to prove his words true, someone shouts in the woods behind them, and it sounds an awful lot like Sheriff Stilinski. Dean curses violently, but he follows Sam to the left, away from the scene of the crime. They circle around to the school, breathing heavily by the time they burst out of the trees. Dean is pretty sure they weren’t seen.

“Good work, Dean,” Sam says scathingly.

“ _I hit it_ ,” Dean repeats.

“You hit a werewolf. And now it and it’s entire Pack are going to be pissed and out for blood. Our blood.” Sam sounds angry, nearly furious. He takes a deep breath and closes his eyes. “We need to get back to the house.”

“I’ll call Crowley,” Dean says with a sigh. Sam is right. If he really did shoot a werewolf on accident, than they’re fucked. Werewolves are highly protective of their Pack and will stop at nothing to protect or avenge them. And without a silver bullet, it’s unlikely he even seriously wounded the beast. He just made it angry. He tries to put the worry out of his mind by calling Crowley. “Hey,” he says. “We need a lift.”

“Can’t,” Crowley says. “Melissa will be over any second.” And he hangs up.

“It’ll only take you a second to get us there,” Dean mutters.

So they have to walk all the way back to the Hale house.

* * *

“Shit, shit, shit!” Cora gulps as Derek’s eyes flutter shut. The bullet dug a dark hole into his chest, near his heart. She looks around for the shooter, but all she sees are the trees, and already, she can hear the shouting of the police. She needs to get Derek out of here before their attacker comes back for another shot and before she has to explain why Derek’s bleeding out to the police. Sheriff Stilinski will understand, but it doesn’t sound like he’s alone.

With a grunt, she wraps his arms around her neck and stands up, dragging him with her. As she staggers back the way they came, she fumbles her phone out and calls Stiles. “Stiles!” she yells over his hello. “Derek’s been shot! I need you to come pick us up!”

“Where are you?” Stiles demands.

“In the woods near the school. Hurry!”

His blood soaks through the back of her shirt, and he groans in pain. “You’re such a lump,” she grunts. “No more cookies for you.” Though she knows he’s literally all muscle. She snarls and starts moving faster and faster, because it really feels like he’s bleeding out on top of her. The bullet is still in side of him, preventing him from healing.

She bursts out of the trees just as Stiles’ Jeep roars up. Allison leaps out of the back and helps Cora manhandle Derek onto the seat. She crams herself onto the floor, and Cora sits with his head on her lap, and as soon as the door is closed, Stiles peels away.

“What happened?” Lydia asks, twisting around in the front seat to look at them.

“We were chasing the vampire and then boom, gunshot,” Cora explains. She brushes Derek’s hair away from his forehead.

“Did you see the shooter?” Stiles jams his foot down on the accelerator, and the Jeep leaps forward.

Cora shakes her head, looking at Allison. “Are any hunters in town? Other than the Shays?”

“Not that I know,” Allison says. “But I’ll ask my dad. Do you think it could’ve been one of them?”

They arrive at the veterinary clinic, and Allison jumps from the car, grabbing Derek’s feet to help maneuver him outside. “I don’t know,” Cora says. “Dean really did a number on them. I don’t think could be out running around in the woods.”

Stiles yanks the door to the clinic open, and the three girls wrangle Derek inside. “Deaton!” Stiles yells.

“One moment!” Deaton replies from the back.

“Don’t have a moment!”

Deaton appears in the doorway and gasps when he sees Derek. “Bring him to the back. Hurry.” He disappears to prep his supplies, and the girls carry Derek between them as they follow the doctor. Stiles flutters around them nervously, wringing his hands.

They lay Derek out on the metal operating table, and Deaton cuts his shirt away. The wound, though small, oozes blood at a steady rate, and Derek groans, eyes fluttering under their lids. Deaton takes a pair of long, angled tweezers, and digs them into the hole. With a grunt of concentration, he pulls the bullet out, dropping it into a small tray.

Then he slaps Derek across the face to wake him up and start the healing process.

Derek gasps as his eyes snap open, and his hand goes to his chest. “Ow,” he moans.

“Thank God!” Stiles breathes explosively, and he reaches out as if to touch Derek’s shoulder, but he pulls back at the last moment.

Deaton tosses Derek a towel to clean up with, and the werewolf begins to wipe the blood away, careful to keep away from the healing edges of the bullet hole. “I hate getting shot,” Derek grumbles.

Deaton crosses the room to a cabinet where he keeps about fifteen extra shirts for occasions just like these. He hands Derek on in his size. He has shirts in all the werewolves’ sizes.

In a few minutes, Derek’s wound is healed, and he pulls the shirt over his head. “Thanks, Deaton,” he says, then he looks over at the others. “Let’s go home, guys. Before I get shot again.”

They load themselves back into Stiles’ Jeep and return to the Pack house, tramping inside and kicking their boots off. They find Sam and Dean sitting on the couches in the living room. “Where the hell did you guys go?” Stiles demands.

Dean raises an eyebrow. “Where did we go? Where did _you_ go? We stepped out to make a phone call, and when we got back, you were all gone!”

“Uh…” Stiles glances around at the others. “My dad wanted to talk to us.”

“About what?” Sam asks.

“The attack,” Allison says. “We go – went to school with Kara. He wanted to ask if we knew anything.”

Sam and Dean accept that answer, and they watch TV until the rest of the Pack trickles in. The mood is somber, weighed down by the events of the day, but they try to lighten the mood by building a blanket fort.

Dean proves to be an expert at it, naturally understanding how the architecture of it works. He directs the others, and they shove the couches together, and then drape blankets everywhere. Once the fort is done, they order pizza, make popcorn, and stick a movie in.

They decide to sleep in the fort that night. Dean strips off his shirt to get ready for bed, and everyone stares, especially Stiles. He has abs and pecks as perfectly sculpted as Derek’s, and his tattoos swirl onto his chest, too. And he has scars. Slash marks, thin ones on his arms and thicker ones on his ribs, and a few puckered circles that look like bullet holes.

“How did you get those?” Cora asks.

“Uh…” Dean hesitates and shoots Sam a look. “We were…robbed. We resisted. That was a bad idea.”

Stiles nudges her and shakes his head. She turns a little red. Dean obviously doesn’t want to talk about it, and she drops the subject.

Near midnight, they pile up on top of each other in standard Pack style, and Dean and Sam fit themselves in easily. They fall asleep like that, a tangle of limbs and gently rising chests.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I need to take a short break from this story to work on my LoZ fic. I haven't updated it in a while. Hope you enjoyed this chapter! Thank you for all your comments and the kudos; it really means a lot to me to hear that people are enjoying this story!


	12. Graduation Day

Chapter Twelve

Graduation Day 

“Are there any hunters in town right now?” Allison asks Chris. Graduation day has finally arrived, and they’re standing in the main foyer of their house, waiting for Scott and Isaac to arrive so they can all head over together. This is the first chance Allison has gotten to ask Chris this because he’s been out of town since the beginning of the week.

“The Shays were here for a few days, but they’re gone now,” Chris says, adjusting his dark grey tie. “Why?”

“Derek was out in the woods chasing the vampire-thing I told you about, and he got shot. We think by a hunter.”

Chris turns around and lays his hand on Allison’s shoulder. “No one’s checked in with me. You’re sure it wasn’t the Shays?”

“I’m sure,” Allison says. “Dean really did a number on them. They were in no shape to be running around in the woods.”

“Dean?” Chris cocks his head to the side.

“A friend of Stiles’. He and his brother Sam are visiting. Didn’t I tell you?”

“Dean and Sam?” Chris asks, his heart suddenly taking off because he thinks he’s heard those names before, but then the doorbell rings, and Allison jumps, a grin lighting up her face, and she rushes to answer it. Melissa, Scott, and Isaac stand there in their formal clothes, Scott and Isaac with their red robes draped over their arms. They kiss Allison on the cheek in unison.

“Ready to go?” Melissa asks.

Chris grabs his keys and makes sure Allison has her own robes, then they all climb into his red SUV. In the front seat, Melissa twists around to look at all the kids in the back. “So, are you three excited? Nervous?”

“Just ready to be done,” Scott says, and the others laugh a little in agreement.

Chris glances left and right before rolling through the next intersection. He hadn’t attended his own high school graduation. His father had taken him on a hunting trip to kill a rogue werewolf in upper California. Gerald hadn’t even mentioned the ceremony the whole weekend, so Chris didn’t say anything either. When the school mailed him his diploma a week later, his name had been spelled Kris Argant.

He pulls into the school parking lot and finds one of the last open spots. Scott, Allison, and Isaac jump out and immediately take off towards the school where they’re supposed to meet the rest of the class. “Hey, wait, we need to–!” Chris calls, but it’s already too late. He rolls his eyes, turning towards Melissa. “Pick a meeting spot.”

“Kids.” Melissa laughs.

“Hey, Melissa! Mr. Argent!” a voice calls from behind them, and he turns around to see Stiles leading Derek, Cora, and two incredibly tall men across the parking lot. One is blonde and tugging at the collar of his black tie, and the other is even bigger with broad shoulders that could swallow Chris whole. He narrows his eyes. Two brothers, one blonde, one brunette. Both tall. Sam and Dean. He wonders if they’re _the_ Sam and Dean, the hunters who trail bodies everywhere they go.

“Mr. Argent, I want you to meet Sam and Dean,” Stiles says when their two little groups meld together. “They’re visiting for the summer.”

Again, no last names. Chris studies their eyes. There’s something there, but it’s cleverly hidden.

“Where’s Alan?” Melissa asks.

“He’s going to be late. He said he’ll grab a seat in the back,” Derek answers.

The ceremony is being held on the football field, so they head around to the back of the school to find seats. Most of the bleachers, covered with cushions for the occasion, are packed, but they head up to the top and manage to locate a mostly open row. Stiles plops himself down between Dean and Derek, and Chris finds himself beside Sam. The man smells very faintly of cologne.

“Why aren’t you sitting with Dr. Crowley?” Cora asks, leaning around her brother to address Melissa.

“He has to sit with the teachers.” Melissa nods towards the chairs set up on the field.

Both brothers twitch and glance at each other at the sound of the chemistry teacher’s name. Dean’s hand makes a fist.

The ceremony begins before he can grill them. There’s a large stage in the center of the field which is flanked by heavy, black curtains, and one side splits to let the red-clad graduates file through as Pomp and Circumstance starts up. The audience applauds, a few people whooping and cheering. The graduating class is small this year. It could just be from normal causes or it could be all the deaths over the years. People just don’t move to Beacon Hills anymore.

Once they’re all seated, the teachers and officials stride out onto the stage, to the chairs placed there. The principal – a woman Chris doesn’t recognize because, once again, she’s new – approaches the podium and tests the microphone. It shrieks and crackles. “Welcome, one and all,” she begins. Chris searches for Allison in the sea of red hats, but they all look the same. The president’s speech turns into a drone of congratulations and inspirational platitudes. Chris glances over at the brothers out of the corner of his eye. Their gazes are locked on the stage, but Dean’s phone is balanced on his knee as if he’s waiting for it to go off.

The principal trades places with the commencement speaker whose speech is a perfectly calculated 40% congratulations, 30% encouragement, 15% anecdote, and 15% humor. The microphone is then handed off to the class president, a girl with fiery orange hair, and she’s all confidence and bubbly smiles.

“Thank you,” the president says once she’s finished. “Now, graduating class of 2017, please begin to form a line before the stairs, and families, I would like to request that you save your applause for the very end so that _all_ the names can be heard.”

She begins to read off the names, and of course, several families whoop and holler for their children despite her request. Allison is one of the first to walk across the stage, with Boyd close behind her, and Chris makes sure to get as many photos as he can. After that, he zones out. It’s hot, crammed onto the bleachers with all the other warm bodies and the sun beating down overhead, and he begins to sweat in his suit.

Somewhere in the Hs, Dean’s phone goes off, buzzing on his knee. Dean jumps, fumbles at it, then stands up and slides his way towards the aisle, apologizing profusely as he climbs over them. Chris watches him race down the stairs and disappear around the corner.

“Sorry,” Sam whispers to them. “Our friend, Bobby, is in the hospital. We’ve been waiting to hear from him.”

Bobby? Chris wonders. Bobby Singer?

“Is he okay?” Melissa asks.

Sam smiles at her, nodding. “It’s nothing too serious. Just pneumonia, but he’s like a father to us, so we made him promise to call with any updates.”

Chris glances over at Derek and Cora, but the werewolves give no indication that they think Sam is lying. Chris drums his fingers against his leg. Something feels off. If these men are who he thinks they are, then he definitely doesn’t want his daughter hanging around them. They’re dangerous. People who get too close to them end up dead. He’s heard stories about the Winchester Brothers. They don’t hold to the Code, and their methods are unpredictable at best. He needs to know for sure whether Sam and Dean are, in fact, Sam and Dean Winchester. And if they are, well, he’ll just have to do the world a favor and get rid of them.

Dean returns as the principal gets started on the Ls. He sits just as Isaac’s name is called, and he, along with the others, whoop loudly as Isaac struts across the stage and shakes the principal’s hand. Then Dean leans over and whispers in Sam’s ear. “I know what it is.”

“What?”

“Later.”

“And Cas?”

“Haven’t heard from him.”

Dean knows what what is? Are they hunting the same vampire-thing as the Pack? Chris doesn’t like this, and – god! His heart stops suddenly. Do they know that Scott and the others are werewolves? That they’re living in a house with the very creatures they hunt? Chris wonders if this is some kind of long con for them; worm their way into the confidences of the Pack and then learn everything there is to know about the other werewolves in the area. If they hurt any of Allison’s friends, Chris will rip them apart.

Lydia gets called, then Scott, and last but not least, Erica. Stiles and the others cheer for them obnoxiously, earning petulant looks from the people seated around them.

Then the list of names ends, the principal says her closing remarks, and the ceremony breaks up, the graduates tossing their hats triumphantly into the air.

It takes a hellishly long time to make their way out of the stands and back to the parking lot, and Chris picks a prominent, visible tree for them to wait by. A tide of red-robed teenagers comes pouring around the side of the school, and Chris stands up on his toes to try and see Allison a little sooner, and when they lock eyes, a big, goofy grin spreads across her face, and she points his group out to her friends.

The six of them hurry over, and a long round of hugging ensues. Melissa is in tears by the time it’s all said and done. “I’m…I’m just so proud!” she sniffles, and Scott grabs her into another hug and lifts her off her feet.

He sets her down.

They all turn and start towards their various cars.

And then all hell breaks loose.

* * *

It starts with a scream. It’s not close to them. It comes from the far side of the parking lot. The one scream turns into heads turning to look at each other, turns into a rippling gasp as those at the front catch a glimpse of what has happened, turns into a nervous murmuring, turns into people pulling out their phones to call the police.

Without even bothering to explain their actions to Sam and Dean, the Pack takes off running towards the sound, the graduates ripping off their red robes and leaving them behind for Chris and Melissa to deal with. Derek is in the lead with Scott right behind him. They skirt around a knot of worried people, bursting out into one of the back areas of the parking lot. There’s nothing there. No bodies. No blood. No monster.

“I thought I saw something in the woods!”

“Some kind of beast!”

“It was huge!”

Derek glances at Scott. The area reeks of burnt cinnamon and metal.

“Allison, Stiles, Lydia, stay here,” Derek says.

“Like hell!” Lydia retorts, and he doesn’t have time to argue with her. The thing is getting away.

The Pack runs into the woods and fans out to cover as much ground as possible. Now that they’re away from other people, Derek allows himself to shift, his face prickling as his hair grows out, his muscles aching as they expand, and soon, everything is sharper and more real.

This time, he picks up on a clear scent trail, shooting out directly in front of him, and he lets out a howl. The Pack knows what it means; try to circle around this thing and trap it. Scott bounds away, rapidly picking up speed, and the werewolves quickly leave the humans behind. Derek can’t worry about them right now.

He plunges through the forest, the scent trail growing stronger, and he hears Erica howl to indicate that she’s caught a glimpse of the creature. He’s not going to let it get away this time. Its killing spree ends here. He pushes himself to run even faster, and he overtakes Boyd then Cora.

The thrill of the chase is strong within him, the wind crisp in his hair, the scent of the forest, nearly overpowered by the smell of burnt cinnamon and metal, in his nose. This is where he’s supposed to be, how he’s meant to live. This is freedom. Even with the impending fight and the unknown danger hanging over his head, Derek is happy. He’s running with his Pack.

Scott howls, signaling that he’s caught sight of the creature, and Derek lifts his head to tell him to cut it off. The anticipation, the tension, drives him to new speeds, and his excitement pulls the Betas along with him, lending them strength.

Three gunshots ring through the forest, and he howls for the others to be careful. There are hunters in these woods, too. He doesn’t know if they’re after the vampire-creature or after his Pack. Scott may have a no killing policy, but if it’s between that and letting the hunters hurt one of his own, he’s not afraid to rip a throat open. He’s done it before.

He sees a dark shape rushing towards him, moving faster than seems possible, and it bats Scott out of the way as if the other Alpha were just a rag doll. Derek howls and speeds towards it, his Betas gathered around him, and when the thing sees them, it lets out a shriek that steals the leaves from the trees and cuts the strings off the Betas, sending them crashing to the ground, writhing in pain with their hands over their ears.

Derek’s head pounds, but he’s able to keep running, and he chases the creature as it flees back the way it came. Three more gunshots ring out, and he sees black blood fly off it, but then it knocks the shooter out of the way with one arm, and Derek sees a flash of blonde hair. The beast poises itself over their prone form and lifts a pale hand, the fingers tipped with claws.

Derek is sure the man is a hunter, but he tackles the creature anyways, bowling it over, the burnt smell of cinnamon and metal in his nose. They crash into the ground, but the beast slips out of his grip, and before he knows it, it’s gone, racing off through the trees. He stands, breathing heavily.

“Thanks,” a voice says behind him. “I…”

Derek turns around, too riled up by the fight and the loss of his prey to make himself change back to human. A blonde man in a suit stands behind him, and when he sees Derek’s face, his eyes go wide and his gun jerks into the air.

At the other end of the barrel is Dean’s face.

* * *

As soon as they hear the scream, Sam and Dean disappear. They’re standing at the back of the group, so it’s easy enough to slide away and run off through the cars. No one notices. When they reach the site of the scream, there’s no body or monster in sight, but Dean sees a glimpse of movement through the trees. There’s no way they can catch it on foot, but the Impala is close by, so they fling themselves inside and peel out of the parking lot.

“What are we dealing with?” Sam demands, pulling his gun from his belt and checking the magazine.

Dean tells him. “We don’t have what we need to kill it right now, but maybe we can wound it.”

As they race down a highway parallel to the forest, Dean hears the howl of a wolf through the open window. It sounds close. He shares a worried look with Sam. He knows there are werewolf packs in the area, but they have yet to encounter one, and he really hopes that’s not what he’s hearing right now. If the werewolves are working with the creature, then things just got a whole lot more complicated.

The road dips away from the forest, but Dean knows that it will turn back again soon enough, so he keeps driving, pressing the accelerator into the floor. He yanks the wheel through the curve, the tires squealing, and halfway to the next turn, something plunges out of the forest and collides with the front of the Impala as it tries to race across the highway.

Metal shrieks, and the engine yells in protest, and the Impala slams to a halt, nearly knocking Dean’s head into the steering wheel. He sees a flash of a pale, bare arm and fluttering black hair as it leaps back to its feet and rushes back the way it came. Dean flings himself out of the car, firing three shots as he does so, but they hit only the tree trunks. He races into the forest, Sam right behind him, as another howl rises through the air.

He sees sunlight glinting off metal as the creature pulls away from them, and his feet pound heavily on the ground as he sprints through the trees, finding his way easily over the dips and hills, weaving through the underbrush. He begins to leave Sam behind. Despite his longer legs, Dean has the superior speed, and though he knows in the rational part of his mind that they should stick together, his adrenaline has taken over.

There’s a third howl, quickly followed by another, and then an unearthly shriek shatters the air, shaking the leaves from the trees. Suddenly, the creature is sprinting directly at him, moving so fast that all he can see are glowing red eyes and fluttering black hair, and he plants himself in place and fires three shots at it. He sees black blood fly, but the creature doesn’t falter.

It lowers its shoulder and slams into him, the scent of cinnamon washing over him, sending him flying. Then its standing over him, but his head is swimming, and he can’t lock on its features, and the sun is glinting off a piece of metal, blinding him. Then something else tackles the beast with an animalistic roar, and the two of them disappear.

By the time Dean regains his feet, the creature is gone, and his savior is standing with his back turned, clad in a rumpled suit, shoulders heaving. “Thanks,” Dean says. “I…”

The man turns around. Dean’s gun snaps up on instinct, pointed directly at the werewolf’s face.

Because the man is definitely a werewolf, though he’s not like any werewolf Dean has ever seen before. His face looks almost distorted, animalistic, his brow prominent over his glowing red eyes. His black hair is thick, and side burns crawl down his cheeks, and his teeth are razor sharp when he pulls back his lips to snarl, thick brown claws tipping his fingers.

“Don’t move. These are silver bullets,” Dean says, even though they’re not, but the werewolf doesn’t need to know that.

“Silver bullets won’t do anything. That’s a myth,” the werewolf says, and his voice, though gravelly, is so familiar that Dean takes a step back in surprise and nearly drops his gun.

The werewolf begins to change. The sideburns recede, the face returns to its normal shape, the glowing eyes fade, and Dean is left staring at Derek Hale. His jaw drops, but he doesn’t lower his gun or turn off the safety.

“What…?

Even more werewolves come out of the woods, one with red eyes, one with blue, and the others with yellow. They snarl at him, tense, until Derek lifts a hand, and then they all shift back into human until Scott, Isaac, Erica, Boyd, and Cora are standing around him.

“Dean?” Scott says, puzzled.

“Scott? What the fuck is going on?” Dean demands.

Just then, Sam bursts out of the woods. When he sees all of them arrayed there and Dean with his gun trained on Derek, confusion flashes across his face and sticks there. “Dean, what the hell are you doing?”

“They’re werewolves,” Dean says.

Sam’s eyes widen, and he lifts his gun, but he can’t decide who to point it at or even if he should, so he just sort of aims it at the ground. “I don’t understand.”

“They’re werewolves!” Dean repeats, yelling. His voice cracks. His eyes feel hot and thick. “They’re all fucking werewolves!”

“Not all of us,” Isaac pipes up. “Stiles, Allison, and Lydia are human.”

Derek motions for him to be quiet. “And you’ve been lying to us. You’re hunters! I knew there was something off about you. I knew we shouldn’t trust you. You’re here to kill us!” His words are full of rage, and his eyes glow red. Dean’s grip tightens on his gun.

“We didn’t come here on a job,” Sam says, trying to calm everyone down. “We came because Stiles invited us. We know a lot of weird supernatural stuff goes on here, but we didn’t come here to hunt anything. I swear.” He slowly crouches down and sets his gun on the ground, stepping away from it.

Dean doesn’t move. His hands are rock steady. He will shoot Derek if he has to.

Stiles, Allison, and Lydia arrive at the scene, red faced and puffing. “We’re here, what’d we miss…” Stiles’ voice trails off. “Why does Dean have a gun?”

“Your new best friends are hunters,” Derek says, his voice sounding like red hot lava oozing over a village.

“Hunters?” Stiles looks at Sam and Dean, hurt splashed across his features. “Like Chris?”

“They’re here to kill us,” Derek tells him.

“No, we’re not!” Sam protests. “Dean, goddamnit, but the gun down! These are our friends!”

“How many hearts have you eaten?” Dean demands. He’s gone ice cold. He won’t let them kill anyone else if that’s what they’re doing.

Revulsion wrinkles Derek’s face, replacing the anger. “Hearts? We don’t eat hearts. That’s disgusting. Why would we eat hearts?”

“You’re werewolves, aren’t you? That’s what werewolves do. They eat human hearts.”

“Your information about werewolves is seriously screwed up,” Scott says. “We don’t eat hearts.”

Dean looks wildly at Sam, confused and floundering. Sam shrugs. He’s just as lost. “No, we’ve hunted werewolves before,” Dean says. He finally lets his gun drop away from Derek’s face, though he keeps a firm hold on it. “For three days around the full moon, they wolf out and lose control and go hunting for hearts.”

Derek glances around at the other werewolves, and all of them shake their heads. “I mean, it’s harder to keep control during the full moon, but we definitely don’t eat hearts.”

Sam scoops up his gun – all the werewolves tense and eye him – and slides it back into his belt. “Maybe there are different types of werewolves.”

“Like breeds.” Dean nods thoughtfully.

“We don’t kill people,” Scott says. He walks forward to stand beside Derek, back straight and authority rolling off him. “Even if it’s the easiest solution. There’s always another way.”

That’s a little idealistic, but they don’t kill people for hearts, and that’s what he needs ot hear. Dean takes a deep breath and finally puts his gun away. His hands are shaking slightly. He stuffs them in his pockets to hide it. “Okay. You don’t eat hearts. You don’t kill people. That’s good.”

“Hang on, you owe us an explanation!” Stiles storms forward and gets in between Dean and Derek, slamming his hands into the blonde man’s chest and sending him staggering back a step. Surprised, Dean stumbles. There’s a fierce, red hot anger in Stiles’ eyes, enough to be murderous. “I trusted you! I thought we were friends! I brought you back to my _home_ , to my _friends_ , and you’ve been _lying_ to us about _everything_!”

He pounds his fists against Dean’s chest, tears streaming down his face, and Dean lets him. He feels he deserves it.

“We didn’t know,” Sam says in his calm-calm voice. “We didn’t know that you knew about the supernatural, and we didn’t want to drag you into the world, because it’s full of darkness. We couldn’t bring you into that. We were trying to protect you.”

“We don’t need protection,” Erica growls.

“Well, we know that now.” Sam tries to laugh to diffuse the tension that has a chokehold on the forest, but it doesn’t work.

Stiles jabs his finger at Dean. “Tell us the whole truth. Now.”

Dean looks around him and Derek to Sam, and Sam nods. Dean takes a deep breath. He’s told people the truth before, but every time, it’s hard, so hard. He’s afraid of their reactions, their fear, their rejection. It’s hard to shatter someone’s world view, but Stiles and the others already know about the supernatural, so that should make it easier.

“It’s a long story,” he begins. The others gather around to listen, and they wait expectantly for him to continue. He looks around at their faces. All of them are wary, a few curious, none of them particularly friendly.

“When Sammy was a baby, our mother was killed by a demon.”

Boyd cocks an eyebrow. “A demon?”

Cora shushes him.

“Our father learned everything he could about the supernatural, and he discovered a whole network of humans across the country. So that’s how Sammy and I spent our childhoods. Going on hunting trips with him. Training. Studying. Living in motels and eating at fast food joints.” Dean grins. “It was a pretty great childhood, honestly.”

“That’s debatable,” Sam mutters.

“Sam didn’t get along with Dad. He wanted to go off to college and live a normal life.” Dean tries to keep the scorn out of his voice.

Lydia glances over at Sam. “Stanford.”

“That part was true,” Sam says, nodding. “I got out, I went to college. But our dad spent our whole lives searching for that demon, and then he disappeared on a hunting trip, and Dean dragged me back in.” He leaves out the part about the psychic powers and the demon blood.

“Our dad died fighting the demon, and we’ve been hunting ever since. It’s the family business,” Dean finishes though there’s still more to the story. But he thinks that’s enough sharing for now. The rest of it gets complicated and confusing, and he doesn’t feel like getting into it.

But Sam motions for him to continue.

Dean rolls his eyes, glaring at his brother. “Then the demon killed Sam, I made a deal with a different demon to bring him back, and a year later, I got dragged down into Hell because that was the deal, then an angel saved me, we fought the devil together, and stopped the Apocalypse.” He says this all in one breath.

He has eight pairs of eyes staring at him. “Wait…what?” Allison asks.

“We’ve lived a weird life,” Sam says. “Let’s leave it at that.”

“Your turn. What’s your story?” Dean says so he doesn’t have to explain any more of it.

“Uh…” Scott tries to gather his thoughts, still processing what he’s just heard. “Well, um, when I was a sophomore, I was bitten by Derek’s creepy uncle Peter who was an Alpha.”

“I knew right away what was going on,” Stiles cuts in. “I was on top of that shit.”

“We found the body of Derek’s sister who was the previous Alpha, and we totally thought Derek did it.”

Derek glares at them. “They got me arrested.”

“We said we were sorry,” Stiles says, grinning.

“Peter wanted me to join his Pack and tried to get me to kill all my friends, but Derek killed Peter.”

“You want?” Dean interrupts.

“Don’t worry, he got brought back to life because he turned Lydia into a banshee and got her to bring him back.”

Dean and Sam look at Lydia who shrugs and flicks a piece of hair over her shoulder.

“So Derek became an Alpha, and he turned Isaac, Erica, and Boyd.” Stiles picks up the story. “And baddies kept coming to town trying to kill us all, including an entire goddamn Alpha Pack, and then Scott, through the sheer force of his willpower or whatever,” Stiles’ voice becomes mocking, “Became an Alpha too, and yeah. That’s pretty much it.”

“Your story’s weirder,” Erica decides. “And that’s saying something.”

“My father’s a hunter, too. Maybe you two should talk to him sometime,” Allison adds.

“So are we okay?” Dean asks, looking at Derek.

“You lied to us,” Derek says, icy cold.

“You lied to us, too,” Sam points out.

Derek tips his head to the side. “Fair point.”

“I think we’re the same,” Dean says. “Saving people. Hunting things. That’s what we do. It sounds like that’s what you do, too.”

“Wait a second,” Lydia interrupts, laughing a little. “Have you guys been running around behind our backs trying to investigate the killings?”

“Yes.” Dean pauses. “Have you guys been doing the same?”

Derek nods, and Dean cracks up, throwing his whole body into the laughter and bracing himself on his knees. “Oh my God, that’s hilarious! We’re supposed to be crack detectives, and we couldn’t even see what was going on right under our noses! We’re so stupid!”

His outburst finally breaks the tension, and soon, everyone is laughing. Dean offers Derek his hand. “We’re cool?”

Derek shakes it, and then he tightens his grip and nearly pulverizes Dean’s fingers. “We are. But if you hurt any of my Pack members, I will rip you apart.”

“Alright.” Stiles rubs his hands together. He’s back to his old, grinning self, and he claps Dean on the shoulders. “Now that we’ve got that settled. What do you two know about this vampire?”

“Well, first off,” Dean says. “It’s not a vampire.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I hope the reveal was satisfying! If you think it could be better, let me know and I'll try to fix it up. Anyways, thank you all so much for all your comments and kudos; they mean a lot to me!


	13. All Secrets Out

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, I am back! Finals got hectic, but summer is here now, so hopefully I'll be able to write chapters a little quicker. Thank you for your comments and kudos; I love hearing from you all!

Chapter Thirteen

All Secrets Out

“Let’s find a better place to talk,” Sam says. Everyone is staring at Dean, waiting for him to continue after he revealed that the creature isn’t a vampire, but he’s glancing around like he thinks the trees have ears.

“Uh, right,” Scott says, scrubbing at his hair. “We should head back to the Pack house.”

“That’s Derek’s house?” Dean guesses, and Derek nods. “Our car is on the road just that way. Are your cars nearby?”

“Back at the school,” Scott says. “We’ll run and get them and meet you there. Do you have room for Stiles, Lydia, and Allison? They’re human and can’t run like us.”

“You’ll run…?” Sam repeats, then he shakes his head with a short laugh. “Right, werewolves. Do you guys have, like, super speed or something?”

“Or something,” Scott agrees.

“Right, uh, right. We’ll meet you back there, then.” Sam grins, and Stiles notices that it’s a little shaky.

Stiles has been quiet since he shoved Dean in the chest. He’s still trying to process everything. Sam and Dean are hunters. They kill supernatural creatures. And Stiles had no idea. He’s supposed to be the one with all the intuition, but he didn’t see the lies right below his nose. He was blinded by his childish infatuation with Dean.

Lydia takes his elbow, reading his thoughts, and guides him after the Winchesters and Allison. By the time they reach the edge of the woods and step out onto the street, he’s got his wits back, and he smiles at Lydia in thanks. She pats him on the arm.

With Allison, they climb into the back of the Impala as Sam and Dean take the front seats, the doors creaking. Stiles finds himself in the middle. The car rumbles to life, and they peel away in a rush of squealing tires. Dean glances at him in the rearview mirror. His mouth opens then closes again. “I’m sorry,” he says finally. “For lying. When you’ve been lying your entire life, it becomes second nature.”

“I trusted you,” Stiles says.

Dean’s eyes locked onto his. “You lied, too.”

Stiles nods.

They drive the rest of the way in silence and soon pull onto the driveway of the Pack house. Dean parks right next to the porch and climbs out of the car with a groan. Stiles shuffles out after Lydia as Allison climbs out the other door. Dean is staring at the front of the Impala, an angry look on his face. “Son of a bitch,” he growls. “I’m going to kill that thing.”

The whole front corner of the car is crumpled, the hood popped out of place, and when Dean pulls it open fully, the side of the engine looks battered, and faint threads of smoke are coiling out of the parts. Dean’s face looks like he fees every inch of the damage.

“Ouch,” Stiles says.

Dean runs a hand along the front of the car. “She’s had worse. Got totaled by a semi once. I’ll get her fixed up, but still hurts me to see her like this.”

Derek’s Camaro, Stiles’ Jeep, and Lydia’s Prius appear at the end of the driveway and trundle up to the house in a line. The rest of the Pack tumbles out of the cars, and for a long moment, everyone just stares at each other. Derek is the one who finally breaks it. “Let’s head inside. We can talk in the living room.”

He leads the way, and the Pack settles itself onto the couches and chairs. It looks like they’re gathered for just another meeting, another hangout, legs crossed, feet gathered under them, except now, everything is different, and beneath the casual positions, muscles are tense and eyes are wary.

“I’m going to grab something from upstairs then we can start, okay?” Dean says, and Derek nods. He disappears around the corner.

The Pack turns to stare at Sam, and he smiles that patented, sincere smile. Knowing what he does now, Stiles wonders how many times Sam has practiced that expression in the mirror. Barely thirty seconds later, Dean clatters back into the room, carrying a stack of ancient looking, leather bound books which he drops on the coffee table. Fascinated, Stiles leans forward to look at one, pulling it into his lap. It’s heavy, the covers stiff and the pages inside thick. There aren’t any markings on the marred leather, and when he opens it, strange symbols crawl across the paper.

“What is this? Some kind of spell book?” he asks, though he feels a little silly saying it.

“No, that’s what this one is.” Sam points at the tome on the bottom of the stack. “The one you’re holding is more like a…a monsterology. It’s written in Ancient Sumerian.”

“No shit. That’s so cool.” Stiles’ eyes go wide as he leafs through it. There are even intricate drawings of the creatures, things he’s never seen before or even dreamed of. He’s going to have to learn Ancient Sumerian.

“But the one I think we need right now is this one,” Dean says, picking up a different book and paging through it. “Sammy and I, we’d never seen killings like those before.” He looks at Stiles. “Vampire was a good guess, but we’d just come from one of those, and this is different.”

“Wait, you were hunting a vampire in Chicago?” Stiles interrupts, realization hitting him. “Is that what killed Kevin?”

Sam nods. “We don’t work for the newspaper.”

“Did you find it?”

“Him. And we did.”

“What did you do?” Stiles thinks he already knows the answer, but he asks the question anyways.

“I killed him,” Dean says. His voice is flat and unapologetic, businesslike. On the couch across from him, Scott’s face goes hard. Dean stares him down. “He would’ve just kept killing kids if I hadn’t.”

“There’s always another way,” Scott says.

“Sometimes there isn’t.”

Derek claps his hands, grabbing everyone’s attention back to the matter at hand. “We can have this discussion later. Right now, I want to know what we’re dealing with.”

“Right,” Dean agrees. “We called our friend, Bobby Singer, who’s kind of like, I don’t know, the hunter guru. He finally called me back during the ceremony.” He finally finds what he’s looking for in the book, and he flips it around so everyone else can see. “It’s called an empusa.”

The Pack leans forward to get a better look at the picture on the page. It bears the likeness of a fearsome looking creature with long, wild hair and an animalistic face, the brow crinkled, the cheekbones sharp. Long fangs poke out from between its lips. Its body is naked, a woman’s body, and it’s slim yet corded with muscle. One leg appears to be made out of metal, gears and bolts sticking out of it, and the other is hairy and tipped with a goat hoof. A tail wraps out from behind her, and where the fur on her abdomen ends, dark, thick tattoos begin, archaic symbols that Stiles recognizes from his Ancient Greece class but can’t quite recall the meaning of. He recognizes the text that fills the page around the image as Greek.

“The empusa, that’s from Greek mythology, right?” Erica asks.

Derek stretches out a finger to tap the picture but stops just before he touches the ancient paper. “The brass leg. That explains the burnt cinnamon and metal smell.”

Dean nods, and when Stiles glances over at Sam, he’s rubbing his chin thoughtfully. “Right. It’s a vampire-like creature. It drains the blood and life force from its victims. That’s why the bodies looked withered like they did. It’s a nasty creature. Bobby says it’s capable of disguising itself as a normal girl, usually someone young and beautiful.”

“Do you think she’s someone at school?” Allison asks.

“It’s more than likely since all the victims have been high school kids.”

“So how do we kill it?” Sam asks. He takes the book from Dean, and his eyes skim over it, and Stiles wonders if he can actually read Greek.

“We’re not killing her!” Scott protests, half rising to his feet. “She’s just a kid, like us!”

“She’s a murderer,” Dean says.

“She’s a _kid_!”

“Enough!” Derek yells with the force of an Alpha, pounding his fist against the arm of his chair. “Stop squabbling! You sound like children!”

“The empusa is strong, fast, and smart,” Dean says, locking eyes with Scott. “Probably stronger, faster, and smarter than you are, even with your werewolf powers. It’s already killed two people and will probably keep killing people, because that’s what it does. How many more are you going to let it murder?”

“There’s always another way,” Scott insists.

Dean walks over, his footsteps slow and ponderous, and he crouches down in front of Scott. The air in the room becomes tight with tension, and the werewolves in the Pack lean forward, ready to intervene if anything happens, but Stiles sees that Dean’s hands are loose and relaxed, draped over his knees. “And if you don’t find one in time? How many times have you gone after it and missed already?”

“A couple,” Derek answers for Scott. “Just now, and before that, after its second victim. Cora and I were chasing it through the woods, but I got shot before we caught up.”

“You got _shot_?” Dean asks, looking over his shoulder at Derek as he rises from his crouch, his face paling a little.

“Yeah, but I’m fine. Werewolves heal very quickly. I just wish we knew who was in the woods with us.”

“That would’ve been us,” Sam sighs.

“One of you shot me?” Derek demands, incredulous but not mad.

Sheepishly, Dean raises a hand. For some reason, this makes Stiles burst out laughing. The only thing holding him up is the back of the couch, and his hands clutch his stomach. Everyone turns to look at him. “Oh my God, you shot Derek! That’s hilarious!” he manages to choke out through the peals of laughter.

“It’s not hilarious. It hurt,” Derek says, sounding a little offended.

“Sorry about that. Didn’t know it was you,” Dean promises. Derek shrugs and waves the whole incident away.

The tension finally goes out of the room, and the Pack uncoils itself, splaying out like they usually do. Stiles puts the ancient Sumerian book down and picks up the one Sam said was a spell book, but he can’t read this one, either. He doesn’t even recognize the glyphs inside. “It’s Enochian,” Sam explains. “The language of the angels.”

“Fucking cool,” Stiles says as he runs his fingers over the symbols. He’s going to learn this language, too.

“What do we do now?” Isaac asks, his head on Scott’s shoulder. “We don’t really have any leads as to the empusa’s identity other than she’s a girl and she’s probably a high school student.”

“Let’s talk with Deaton,” Scott says. One hand massages Isaac’s curls, and the other is looped in one of Allison’s. “Maybe he’s heard of empusas and can tell us how to find her.”

“The plural is empusai,” Sam corrects.

Derek stands up and takes over, and Scott smoothly passes the lead over to him. “Good idea. Sam and Dean, Scott, Stiles, and I will go see him. Allison, you go talk to your dad, see if he knows anything. Betas, comb the woods, go back to the crime scenes, see if you can pick anything up. And Lydia,” he looks at her and taps his chin. “What do you want to do?”

She flips a look of hair over her shoulder. “I’ll start some research on my own.”

“Hey, that’s my job!” Stiles protests.

“Do you have a patent on it?”

He looks away from her steely eyes. “Uh, no.”

“Then shoo.” She waves him towards the door.

The Pack tumbles off the couches and pours towards the door, and Stiles sees Derek catch Sam and Dean by the arm, but when he hesitates, Derek shoots him a look that tells him to move on. Stiles ducks behind the wall, just out of sight, though he figures that Derek will know he’s still there. The others are too busy stuffing their feet into their boots and pushing through the door.

“What’s up?” Dean asks from the other side of the wall.

“How do you kill it?” Derek says. “If we can’t stop it, how do we kill it?”

Stiles bites his lip; if Scott finds out about this, he’s not going to be happy.

“It’s not easy,” Dean tells him. “We need a stake from an olive tree, and the tip needs to be smeared in the blood of the empusa herself.”

“And how the hell are we supposed to get that?” Stiles wonders.

“That’s what we’ve got to figure out.”

Stiles hears their footsteps coming towards him, so he hurries to put his shoes on then rushes out the door. All his friends other than Scott have already taken off on their assignments, and Scott is sitting on one of the porch steps. He stands when he hears Stiles step out of the house. “What were they talking about in there?”

“You weren’t listening?” Stiles asks.

Scott shakes his head. “Everyone else distracted me.”

“Dean just wanted to apologize again for shooting Derek,” Stiles lies, and he immediately feels guilty about it. But he knows that they all need to be on the same page if they’re going to defeat the empusa, and if Scott knows Derek is harboring the idea of killing whoever it is, that’s all he’ll be able to think about.

Sam, Dean, and Derek appear, clattering down the stairs. “Let’s go,” Derek says.

* * *

Two black cars rumble up to the veterinary clinic, and Derek’s Camaro eases to a much quieter halt than Dean’s Impala. The engine is running painfully after its encounter with the empusa. Derek takes a deep breath as he shuts off the car and stuffs his hand through his hair. “Dude, you messed it all up,” Stiles says, and Derek looks at him with an eyebrow raised. Stiles licks his fingers then runs them through Derek’s hair, pulling it up into a spike. Derek likes the way his hands feel on his head, and he smiles a little at Stiles which makes Stiles go red and look away. In the backseat, Scott clears his throat loudly.

The three of them join Sam and Dean before the door to the clinic, and Scott leads the way inside. “Deaton?” he calls.

The vet appears from the back of the shop, just beyond the mountain ash barrier, wiping his hands on a white rag. He smiles at Scott, then his eyes widen when he sees Sam and Dean. “Agent Fisher, Agent Lucas. It’s a pleasure to see you again. I didn’t realize you knew these three.”

Derek gives the Winchesters a look. “Agents?”

“It’s Sam and Dean, actually,” Sam says with a short laugh. “We’re not FBI agents. We’re hunters.”

“You work with Chris Argent? No, of course not,” Deaton continues before one of them can answer. “Hunters like Chris don’t pretend to be FBI agents. No, you must work with Bobby Singer?”

“You know Bobby?” Dean asks, surprised.

“Of course. Everybody knows Bobby.”

“Son of a bitch never told us he knew someone in Beacon Hills.” Dean smiles fondly even as he shakes his head.

“Tell him hi from me the next time you see him,” Deaton says. “Now what can I do for you boys?”

“What do you know about the empusai?” Stiles asks.

“The empusai?” The rag disappears into Deaton’s pocket, and he rubs at his chin. “Is that what’s been killing people? Shit, why didn’t I see that?” He shakes his head. “Empusai are nasty pieces of work. Hard to kill.”

“We need to know how to find her, not kill her,” Scott says.

Deaton smiles at him a little indulgently. “Right. There is one way I know of to track it, but it’s not a sure thing. Come into the back with me.”

One by one, they pass through the partition, and that familiar tingling sensation of nausea washes over Derek, and he shivers, his eyes flashing red for the briefest second. “Jesus, what is that?” Dean demands, cringing. “I noticed it the last time I was here. Feels weird.”

“It’s mountain ash,” Deaton explains. “It’s painted into the varnish. When the partition is closed, werewolves can’t cross.”

“Interesting,” Sam murmurs, but before he can bend down and examine the barrier, Dean grabs his arm and pulls him after Deaton into the back room of the clinic. Derek looks at the metal table and groans inwardly, remembering all the times he’s nearly died on top of it. Deaton crouches down before one of the cabinets that line the walls and unlocks it using a key from his pocket. He takes a wooden box out from inside that bears the Celtic triskelion on its lid and brings it back to the table, motioning for everyone to gather round.

Deaton flips the lid open, revealing a set of twelve glass vials, all stopped up with corks. Sam leans closer, intrigued, as Deaton runs his fingers over the tops then pulls out three. “Dyer’s root, powdered kemwood, and moon sage.”

“Moon sage?” Sam asks.

Deaton shrugs. “It’s just regular sage that’s been harvested under a full moon. When combined and burned, the smoke of these three herbs is highly allergenic to the empusa. If exposed, she’ll have a reaction.”

“So we just go around waving smoke in people’s faces?” Stiles laughs and rolls his eyes.

Scott slaps him in the chest with the back of his hand. “Maybe not. Tomorrow night is the big senior party. Maybe our empusa will be there.”

“I totally forgot about that! It’s worth a shot,” Stiles says, grinning.

“It’s a plan,” Derek decides. “Deaton, thank you.”

The vet inclines his head. “Anytime.”

“You and I will talk later,” Sam says as he follows the others towards the door. “I want to learn all about these herbs.”

Once they’re outside, Dean grabs Scott’s shoulder before he can climb into the Camaro. Scott looks at him curiously. “There’s one other thing we haven’t told you. It involves your mom. Where’s she at?”

“What?” Scott asks.

“I’d rather just have to explain it once. Where’s your mom?”

Scott checks his watch. “At the hospital.”

“Let’s go then. We’ll meet you two back at the Pack house?” Dean looks at Derek and Stiles.

Derek nods, though he does want to know what this other thing is. But he also realizes that going back to the Pack house now will give him some time alone with Stiles. That thought makes a small burst of happiness go through him. So he nods, and he and Stiles climb back into the Camaro as the other three drive away.

Stiles props his boots up on the dash like he always does, and Derek rolls his eyes, keeping his mouth shut. Saying something won’t make a lick of difference; it’ll just make it more likely that Stiles will do the same thing in the future. “Crazy day,” Stiles sighs.

“Too true,” Derek agrees. He makes a decision then. It’s a snap decision, one that he acts on before he can think it over too much and back out. “Hey, so, um, I was wondering if you, um, would want to go to dinner or lunch with, um, me tomorrow?”

He’s rendered Stiles speechless. Stiles just sits there, staring at him, a shell shocked look on his face, and Derek panics, his heart rate jumping up, his hands tightening on the wheel, his vision blurring as something wet fills his eyes. He blinks and looks away from Stiles. “Or not. Never mind. You don’t have to. It was a stupid idea. Forget it.”

“No!” Stiles blurts out, his hands flapping. “No. Lunch sounds great. I’d love to go to lunch. With you.”

“Really?”

“Yeah.” Stiles smiles at his hands. His heartbeat is going ten times its usual speed.

“Like…like a date?” Derek barely gets the words out.

He hears Stiles’ heart jump again. “Uh, yeah, yeah. Like a date.”

“Cool. Um. Awesome.” He borrows Dean’s word. It seems up to the task.

* * *

Allison gets a ride home from Lydia, and she rubs tiredly at her eyes as she sits in the passenger seat, finally pulling off her low heels. Her feet are killing her. “Did you have any idea?” she asks Lydia. “Did your banshee senses tell you anything?”

Lydia turns the volume down on the radio. “I sensed death on Sam that day I went shopping with him, but I just thought it was the deaths he’d already told us about; his mom, his dad, his girlfriend. But now, I guess it was…” she trails off.

“The people he’s killed,” Allison finishes. “How many do you think?”

“I don’t know.” Lydia sighs and lets her head drop a little. “And I was actually starting to…like him, you know?”

“Does this change things?” Allison asks. She brushes a strand of dark hair out of her face and glances over at Lydia who looks more serious that Allison has seen her in a long time.

“I don’t know. Shouldn’t it?”

Allison shrugs. “I don’t know either. A lot of people we know have killed. My dad’s killed people. And Derek. Cora. And we still love them. Killing doesn’t necessarily make them bad people.”

“You’re right.” Lydia throws Allison a smile. “Maybe he had good reasons for killing them. Maybe he had to do it to help others.”

“Why don’t you talk to him about it?” Allison suggests as they turn up onto the drive to Allison’s large house. Chris’s red SUV is already there. “That’s the easiest way to get everything out in the open.”

Lydia slows the Prius to a stop and puts it in park. “Good idea. Thanks.”

“What are friends for?” Allison unbuckles and leans over so she can give Lydia a hug, the smell of her friend’s strawberry shampoo in her nose. “See you tomorrow,” she says and climbs out of the car. Lydia waits until she gets up the steps and opens the door before she turns the car around to leave. Allison waves goodbye.

“Dad?” she calls as she closes the door behind her. She drops her shoes to the floor.

“In the living room!”

She finds him sitting on the armchair, watching the news, but he turns it off as she comes in. She drops to the couch with a long sigh of relief, propping her feet up. “Did you find it?” Chris asks.

Allison shakes her head. “They got close, but it got away. We know what it is now, though. It’s called an empusa, like from Greek mythology.”

“How’d you figure it out?” Chris sits up to turn and look at her.

“Sam and Dean told us. Turns out they’re hunters, like you.”

The remote falls to the ground with a loud clatter. “Son of a bitch!” Chris practically yells. “Sam and Dean? Did they tell you their last name?”

“Yeah, it’s Winchester,” Allison says slowly. “Why?”

“Fuck!” Allison rears back; she’s never heard her father curse this much. “They’re dangerous, Allison. Really dangerous. I’ve heard rumors about them. Stories about how many people they’ve killed or gotten killed.”

“You’ve killed people,” Allison reminds him.

“Some say they almost destroyed the world. Several times.” Chris clenches his fist like he wishes a knife was in it. “I want you to stay away from them.”

Allison frowns. “What? They’re helping us. They’re our friends.”

“They’re dangerous,” Chris repeats. “They’ll get you killed. I want you to stay away from them. I mean it. if I catch you with them–”

“You’ll what? You’ll kill them?” Allison interrupts. “The Pack isn’t going to let that happen.”

“You’re going to stay away from them because I say so.”

“Yeah, because that worked so well when you told me to stay away from Scott,” Allison snaps, shooting to her feet. She storms out of the living room and up the stairs to her door, slamming it open and shut so she can fall onto her bed. She grits her teeth. She can hear her father calling her name from downstairs to her door; any minute, he’ll come up to talk to her, to try and reconcile.

She rolls back off her bed and goes to her closet to exchange her dress for jeans, a tank top, and a leather jacket. Her bow, quiver, and set of throwing knives are in there, too, and she straps them all on, slinging the bow across her chest diagonally. Then she opens her window and climbs out onto the roof. It’s a bit of a long drop to the ground below, but she’s done it before, and it’s easy enough. From the driveway, she runs to her car. Her father appears at the door just as she turns the key in the ignition, and he runs towards her a few steps, but there’s nothing he can do as she revs the engine and peels away, back towards the Pack house. She needs to warn everyone about his development.

* * *

Melissa sits at one of the tables in the hospital break room, unpacking a bag of Chinese food. Her feet hurt, and her back aches, and she can feel a headache beginning behind her eyes. The door swings open just as she pops the top on her carton of fried rice, and she glances up to see Scott walk through, flanked by his very tall friends, Sam and Dean. “What’s up, boys?” she asks.

The three of them take the rest of the chairs at the table. They look serious, and Melissa grows concerned; when Scott has that look on his face, it usually means someone is hurt or dead. “Sam and Dean have something they want to tell you,” Scott says.

“It’s about your boyfriend,” Dean begins.

“Crowley?” she asks.

“Yeah. So,” Dean glances over at Sam. “We know him, from before we came to Beacon Hills.”

Melissa’s brow crinkles. “But you said you didn’t when we had you over for dinner.”

“We lied. We were trying to cover up our own past. As hunters.”

As hunters? Melissa’s eyes widen, and she glances between the brothers and Scott. There doesn’t seem to be any anger or dangerous tension between them, so she figures the brothers aren’t here to hurt her son which is good for them because if they were, she would end them right here and now using her chopsticks.

“Crowley is a demon,” Sam says.

She stares at him. “I don’t know what happened between you in the past, but he’s not a bad guy.”

“No, I mean an actual demon. Like, crawled up from the depths of Hell in a cloud of red smoke to possess a human body so he can come to Earth and make deals for people’s souls.”

Dean leans over and whispers in his hear. “Too strong, maybe?”

“What?” Melissa laughs, and the sound is shaky and sharp in her own ears. “A demon? You can’t be serious. Demons aren’t real.”

“Like werewolves aren’t real?” Scott asks.

She turns to him, mouth open. “This is different! _Demons?_ Honestly? You believe this?”

Scott shrugs. “After all I’ve seen, I’d believe anything.”

“Crowley was the King of the Crossroads until he helped us defeat Lucifer, then he took the title of King of Hell for himself,” Dean continues.

“Lucifer? Like, Satan?” Melissa is pretty sure her brain has shut off. This is just ridiculous! They can’t honestly expect her to believe that Gus – her Gus – is a, a _demon_. She feels silly just thinking the word. Werewolves she can buy. It’s something in the blood, some kind of mutation, but demons? No, no way. This has to be some kind of elaborate practical joke.

“I can prove it,” Sam says. He pulls out his phone and presses two buttons, putting the call on speaker phone. It only rings three times.

“Moose, this had better be good. I’m a bit busy right now.” Gus’s voice sounds completely different: rougher, angrier. “Let me guess. Squirrel is there, too, and you need something.”

Dean holds up his hand for Scott and Melissa to be quiet. “Don’t be so dramatic. We know what the creature is, and we know how to kill it, but we need you to get something for us.”

“You can’t get it yourself?”

“No, we can’t get it ourselves, it’s in Greece,” Dean snaps. “We need a branch from the olive trees that grow there. Can you get it and bring it to us?”

“What about your feathered friend?”

Melissa sees about a dozen emotions cross Dean’s face, sees his teeth grit. “He’s not here yet, and I haven’t heard from him. Come on, Crowley. I thought you were with us on this one.”

Gus sighs dramatically. “Fine. Give me a second.”

And literally a second later, Gus appears in front of them, an entire olive tree beside him, dripping dirt on the hospital floor. Melissa’s hand flies to her mouth. Gus curses violently when he sees her and Scott, and then thunderous fury descends over his face as he turns to Sam and Dean. “You! You set me up!”

“Maybe a little bit,” Dean says with a fierce grin.

“But we did actually need the tree,” Sam adds. “So thanks for that.”

“I’m going to…” Gus clenches his fists, but then he looks at Melissa and forces his fingers apart. “I take it if you’re telling them about me, then they already know about you.” Sam nods. “Damn, then I don’t get that pleasure. Moose, Squirrel, may I have a minute alone with Melissa?”

The brothers look over at her, and Melissa nods, so Sam jerks his head towards the door, and Dean and Scot follow him out, manhandling the tree between them. The door swings shut with a strange sound of finality. For a long moment, Melissa just stares at Gus. “You’re…a demon?”

Gus nods, and when he blinks, his eye turn a strange red-black. Melissa scoots her chair back without meaning to.

“You take people’s souls?”

“I make deals,” Gus corrects. “And when the contract is up, I merely collect what is owed. Though I haven’t done that in a while.”

“Since you became King of Hell.” Another nod. “And why are you here?”

“I swear, it’s not for any nefarious purpose. I just needed a break from all the tedium. Running Hell is a whole, well, a whole hell of a lot of paperwork.” He laughs a little. “I’m not here to make deals or collect souls.”

“You’ve killed people,” Melissa says. She stands. She doesn’t really know why. She wants to be on the same level as him.

“I have.”

She nods a couple of times, trying to process that. She’s glad he didn’t try to deny it. “Okay. Okay.”

“I understand if you don’t want to see me anymore.” Gus sounds genuinely sad as he says this, and he stares down at the ground, away from her.

“I didn’t say that.”

He looks up at her, surprise, hope, and happiness dawning in his eyes. Melissa doesn’t think he’s every really felt happy. She wonders if he’s ever been in love before. Life as a demon. It sounds lonely. “Are you serious?” Gus asks like he doesn’t dare believe it.

“I am. I don’t care that you’re a, a demon. I like you. I think I can look past the whole minion of Hell thing.”

“King of Hell,” he corrects. “Not minion.”

She smiles as she slides around the table and walks up to him, pressing in close. “Does that make me the Queen of Hell?”

“I think it does.” He grabs her around the waist, dips her down low, and kisses her.

* * *

“I can’t believe my mom’s dating a demon,” Scott says for about the hundredth time as they pull up to the Pack house. He climbs out of the backseat, pushing the branches of the olive tree out of the way. He’s not entirely sure how they fit it in the car. “I can’t believe I didn’t know! Is that why he always smells like sulfur?”

Sam nods and jumps up the porch steps.

“And he came to class smelling like blood one day! I don’t like this.” Scott growls and feels his claws extend. He digs them into the flesh of his palm until they retract again. “I should put a stop to this. If he hurts my mom…”

“Don’t bother trying to threaten Crowley,” Sam says. “He’ll just laugh in your face and give you a humiliating nickname. Like Moose. Or Squirrel.”

“You’d probably be Puppy Dog,” Dean says. “On account of the werewolf thing.” He opens the door, and they step inside.

Scott panics. “Wait, you think Crowley knows I’m a werewolf?”

“Probably,” Dean says.

They head into the living room and find the rest of the Pack there, Stiles practically sitting on Derek’s lap. Scott smirks to himself. Finally. “Wait, why didn’t Crowley tell us?” Sam asks Dean.

“When does Crowley tell us shit?”

They join the others on the couches. Everyone looks tired. Scott is certainly exhausted. It feels like eighty million things have happened all at once. Then Allison says, “We have another problem,” and he curses inwardly.

“What is it?” Derek sighs.

“I think my dad wants to kill Sam and Dean.”

The Winchesters don’t even look surprised. They just kind of sigh and roll their eyes at each other. “Chris? What did we do to him?” Sam asks.

“He says you’re dangerous, that you get people killed, that you nearly destroyed the world.”

“We worked damn hard to keep the world from ending,” Dean says defensively.

“I jumped into Hell to put Lucifer back in the Cage,” Sam adds. “I lost my soul.” He sounds mildly offended.

The doorbell rings, and Scott frowns. He didn’t hear any car pull up or anyone walk up the steps. “Please tell me someone ordered pizza, and that’s not another problem.” But everyone shrugs. No one ordered anything.

Scott goes to answer the door, pulling it open to find a stranger standing there. The man is tall with black hair, blue eyes, and a very serious expression. He wears a tan trench coat over a dark suit, and his tie is twisted around so it’s facing the wrong way. “Uh, can I help you?” Scott says. The man’s presence makes a shiver go down his spine. He doesn’t smell like _anything_.

“I’m looking for Sam and Dean.” His voice is incredibly low and gravelly.

“Uh, sure. They’re in the living room, I guess.”

He steps back so the man can enter, and as he walks by Scott, Scott’s eyes glow involuntarily. He doesn’t think the man notices. When they reach the living room, Dean leaps to his feet, surprise written all over his face. Scott hears his heart start to race. “Cas? What the hell? You’re here?”

“Hello, Dean,” the man, Cas, says. “Why are you hanging out with a bunch of werewolves, and a,” he looks at Lydia. “a banshee?”


	14. Senior Party

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So that took a while. Sorry. I got some Writer's Block: could not figure out how I wanted that final scene to go. I was going to work on it this past weekend while I was house-sitting, and my plan was to spent all day Saturday writing, but then my depression was like nope you're going to lie in bed and watch Netflix all day so... I guess this chapter turned out alright.

Chapter Fourteen

Senior Party

“We made some new friends,” Dean says at the same time as Sam looks at Lydia and says, “A banshee?”

Lydia flicks a piece of hair over her shoulder with a perfectly painted finger. “Did we forget to mention that in all the other confusion? I’m a banshee, as in, I see dead people, though it’s more like I sense dead people. That’s how I found the first body.”

“Okay, banshee, got it,” Sam says. “Is there anything else we need to know?”

Allison raises her hand. “Just that my dad is a hunter and has tried to kill most everyone in this room at least once.”

“Well, we know that feeling, so we’re all in the same boat now.” Sam laughs.

“I’m sorry, who exactly is this?” Derek asks, still staring at Cas with a mixture of suspicion and, well, more suspicion. “He doesn’t smell like anything, and he makes my spine tingle.”

Cas makes Dean’s spine tingle, too, though probably for a different reason. “This is Cas,” he says as if that explains everything.

“Castiel. Angel of the Lord,” Cas says.

“As in God?” Derek asks, an eyebrow raised. “Yeah, right.”

Cas does that thing that Dean loves. He dims all the lights so that it’s really noticeable when he starts to glow, the massive shadows of his wings splashed across the wall as his eyes light up. Dean tries to pretend that it doesn’t turn him on as the lights go back to normal.

“Holy fuck!” Stiles yelps. His eyes are wide, and he and the other Pack members are all visibly leaning away from Cas.

“Please never do that again,” Scott says.

Cas locks eyes with Derek who still hasn’t stopped staring, and they just kind of freeze like that, neither one moving a muscle. The Pack stops, too, so they can watch what’s going on, and the whole room is still like a picture for ten minutes. Sam finally leans over and whispers in Dean’s ear, “What’s going on?”

Dean shrugs.

Stiles finally takes control and snaps his fingers in front of Derek’s face. Derek jumps and pops back into himself, blinking. “What the hell, man?” Stiles demands.

Derek shrugs. “I wanted to see who could go without blinking the longest.”

“Oh my god, I hate you.”

They disperse after that. Allison isn’t about to head back to her house, so she and Isaac go to spend the night at Scott’s place, and Stiles and Lydia head out, too, Derek nodding when Dean asks him if Cas can stay here. Then he slides out of the living room along with Erica and Boyd, giving Cas one last look. Dean leads Cas upstairs to the room he shares with Sam, and by the time they reach the door, Sam has disappeared without a sound.

“So, uh, this is our room.” Dean suddenly wishes he had bothered to pick up. There are clothes and books and more than a few weapons strewn everywhere.

“I can see that,” Cas says. Dean can’t tell if he’s being sarcastic or serious.

Dean’s phone dings with a text from Sam. _I’m not sharing my bed, and I’m not sleeping on the floor._

 _Sleep on the couch,_ Dean replies, the idea of sleeping in the same bed as Cas making him turn red.

_I’m too tall._

Dean sends him the middle finger emoji.

He turns back to Cas who is just standing in the center of the room, watching him with unblinking eyes. “You can share this bed with me, if you want.”

“I don’t sleep,” Cas reminds him.

“Oh, right, duh, sorry.” He tries to play it off, but it still feels a little like a rejection.

“Dean, I have to ask,” Cas forgets about that little thing called personal space and moves in until he’s standing right beside Dean, so close Dean can feel the heat radiating off him. “Why are you staying in the same house as a bunch of werewolves? Normally, you’re a shoot first person.”

Dean shrugs. “We didn’t know. And they’re really cool and don’t eat hearts. Did you know there are, like, different breeds of werewolves?”

“You trust them?”

“I do,” Dean says, surprising himself.

“And you don’t trust anyone.” Cas pauses for so long that Dean thinks he’s done talking. “So if you trust them, that’s good enough for me.”

“Thanks, Cas. I’m glad you’re here.”

“I always come when you call, Dean. Though it took me a very long time to get here, and the energy in this town is very disconcerting. Everything just feels off.”

Dean’s face literally bursts into flames.

He gets ready for bed – Sam’s still not back – and climbs under the covers, wiggling around until he gets comfortable. He reaches for the switch on the lamp then notices that Cas is still standing in the middle of the floor, staring down at him. “Are you just going to stand there all night?”

“Go to sleep. I’ll watch over you.” Cas nods at him, face just as serious as ever.

Dean rolls his eyes and scoffs. “Oh my God, just take your trench coat off and get in here, you noob.”

Cas slides his arms out of the tan coat, folds it up, and sets it on a chair, then tries to lie down on top of the covers. “No,” Dean says and pushes Cas off again so he can pull the comforter back. He pats the mattress. Cas gets into bed and lets Dean drag the blanket back up. Then he just kind of lies there, stiff as a board, staring up at the ceiling.

“You’re so fucking lame,” Dean sighs, but he scooches in close to Cas’s side anyways.

* * *

“Dean, get over here now. It’s an emergency.” Stiles’ voice is panicked and urgent when it comes through the speakers of Dean’s phone, and Dean bolts upright in bed.

“Stiles? What’s wrong?”

“I need you to get over to my house right now.” Stiles hangs up.

Dean throws the covers off and leaps out of bed, yanking jeans and a shirt on. Sam is sprawled out, dead to the world, in the other bed. “Cas, get up, I need you to take me somewhere.”

“I don’t sleep,” Cas says again.

“Just get up.”

Looking completely unrumpled, Cas stands and finds his trench coat. He grabs Dean’s shoulder just as Dean finishes putting on a plaid shirt, sticking his gun through his belt, and then they’re standing in front of Stiles’ house. Dean draws his weapon as he runs up the steps, bursting through the front door. “Stiles?” he yells.

“Upstairs. Hurry!”

He races to Stiles’ room and slams the door open, gun up and ready to shoot. But there’s no threat. There’s just Stiles standing in the midst of about a thousand piles of clothes, pulling at his hair as he paces in between them, avoiding the red strings that run across the walls and over to the desk, connecting photos and newspaper articles together. “What’s going on?” Dean demands. “Is there something I need to shoot? A…clothes monster?”

“Derek asked me out to lunch, and I don’t have anything to wear! Nothing!” Stiles kicks a pile of clothes over.

Dean slowly lowers his gun. “So there’s no monster?”

“Monster? _Monster?_ Of course there’s a monster! It’s called my lack of clothing!” Stiles yells.

Cas appears in the doorway. He doesn’t say anything, but Dean can feel his presence. He can always feel Cas’s presence.

“Dude, calm down.” Dean laughs as Stiles digs through another pile, throwing everything in different directions, and a shirt hits Cas in the face. “This is nothing to worry about.”

Stiles seizes the lapels of Dean’s shirt and tries to shake him, but Dean is a little too muscle-bound for it to work. “Nothing to worry about? _Nothing to worry about?_ Don’t tell me it’s nothing to worry about when you probably just rolled out of bed and somehow still manage to look that fucking good!”

“I don’t understand the problem,” Cas says to Dean. “I thought dates were happy human affairs?”

“Usually.” Dean glances at Cas over his shoulder. “But first dates can be anxiety provoking.” He moves into the mountain range of clothing and pokes through a few piles. “Here. Wear this.” He hands Stiles a green V-neck, a black blazer, and a pair of skinny jeans. “Casual but still hot.”

“You’re a savior.” Stiles strips his shirt off, and Dean sees the scar across his midsection. He’s been through just as much as Dean or Sam.

Dean flops down onto the only patch of open space on the bed, tucking his hands behind his head. “So a date with Derek, huh? That’s exciting.”

He’s never seen someone turn so red. “Yeah, uh, yes. He asked me out. Yesterday.”

“About damn time.”

The doorbell rings, and Stiles nearly jumps out of his skin. “Oh shit. _Oh shit._ ” He hurriedly throws the clothes on, hyperventilating. “Okay, okay, I need my phone and keys, and shit, did I brush my teeth, I don’t remember, oh fuck.” He starts pacing in circles. “I should get some gum or a breath mint, oh God, why did I agree to this, I’m going to mess everything up.”

Dean jumps off the bed and catches Stiles’ arms, jerking his frantic pacing to a stop so he can stare Stiles in the eyes. “Dude, calm down. It’s going to be awesome, I promise. Now go answer the door before Derek starts to think you’re standing him up.” He gives Stiles a push towards the hallway.

“Right, yes.” Stiles grins widely and wipes his hands off on his pants. “Thanks, Dean. I’ll see you tonight.”

He disappears down the stairs, and Dean hears him open the door, greet Derek in a higher pitched voice than usual, then leave the house, the Camaro purring as it drives away.

“We did good work here,” Derek says to Cas, grinning.

“You helped a man pick out an outfit,” Cas says.

“All in the name of gay love. Come on, let’s go back to the Pack house.”

Cas nods, head cocked to the side as he looks at Dean. The flat yet potent stare makes a shiver go down Dean’s spine. Cas’s hand drops onto his shoulder. Then the world blinks black. When it comes back, they’re standing in the middle of a busy, bustling street, the cars driving towards them honking in annoyance. Dean grabs Cas’s arm and drags him onto the sidewalk where people dressed in old fashioned suits and dresses flow around them. Dean stares.

 “Cas, where the hell are we?”

* * *

Stiles sits in the Camaro with his feet planted on the floor and his eyes latched on his hands. Derek focuses on driving, occasionally glancing over at him, but Stiles has forgotten how to interact like a normal human being.

“So I thought we could to go Reilly’s Pizza?” Derek says finally.

Stiles jumps. “What? Uh, yeah. Reilly’s sounds good. I’m always down for pizza.”

“Alright then.” Derek smiles, and that cracks the case of tension that’s been surrounding Stiles since he woke up that morning. He grins back and pops his shoes up onto the dash. Derek rolls his eyes. “You’re the worst.”

They arrive at Reilly’s Pizza. The restaurant is a small, locally owned joint, the outside of which just looks like a regular old house but for the wooden sign that reads Reilly’s – light blue paneling and white window frames, even a small, blue-hatted gnome in the lawn. Derek parks on the street, and they both step out of the car. Stiles stares at Derek, just a little bit flabbergasted. The sun catches on Derek’s face in just the right way to throw his cheekbones into sharp relief beneath his black stubble, his hair sticking up in the front. He’s wearing his favorite black jacket – the one he was wearing when he and Stiles met – dark jeans, and a dark shirt.

Derek notices Stiles staring and quirks an eyebrow up. “See something you like?”

Mortified, Stiles trips over his own foot. He catches his balance, face on fire. A slow clapping sounds fills the air, and Stiles looks up to find Derek grinning. “Shoot me now,” he groans.

“Come on, let’s go inside before you break something.”

Derek slings an arm around Stiles’ shoulders and leads him towards the restaurant door. Stiles freezes at the sudden contact, but he likes the way the weight of Derek’s arm feels so he doesn’t make any move to dislodge it. They enter the quiet restaurant, stepping onto the red and white tiled floor. A row of matching red booths stretches out on one wall, and tables dot the center of the room. A waitress all in black stands behind a small reception desk, and she smiles at them.

“Table for two?” Derek requests.

“Sure, follow me.” She leads them to a booth near the back of the restaurant, setting two menus down. “My name is Jane. I’ll be taking care of you today. Can I get you anything to drink?”

“Coke, please,” Stiles says.

“Just water, thanks,” Derek adds.

Stiles slides the little box of sugar packets towards him and starts sorting them; they’re incredibly jumbled. He focuses on this so he doesn’t have to look at Derek, though he can feel Derek’s intense gaze boring into him, completely calm. “Planning on having coffee?” Derek asks.

Stiles jumps. “What? Oh, no. These packets are all messed up. They needed to be sorted.” He pushes the container away from him. “Sorry. I guess I’m just nervous. And you’re just sitting there like the coolest cucumber ever. How are you so calm?”

“Calm?” Derek laughs. “I’m a giant ball of nerves right now.”

“Well, you don’t look it.”

Jane returns with their drinks and sets the glasses down in front of them. “Are you ready to order?” she asks.

Stiles realizes he hasn’t even looked at the menu yet. “Can we get a medium Chicago-style pizza with sausage and red peppers?” Derek says, and Jane nods as she writes the order down.

“You know my favorite pizza,” Stiles says to Derek.

“Of course I do.” Stiles turns very red. “And you wanted to know how I look so calm? Years of practice.”

“Well, it’s good to know I won’t be mastering that skill any time soon,” Stiles says wryly.

Derek laughs, his eyes twinkling. “Don’t worry. You’ve got enough other skills to make up for it.”

Stiles didn’t think it was possible to turn such a violent shade of red. “So why now? Why’d you decide to,” he hesitates, “ask me out now what with all the crazy stuff that’s been going on?”

“In truth, I should’ve asked you out ages ago.”

Stiles chokes on a sip of Coke. “What?”

“I mean, I kind of hated you when we first met.” Derek winks at Stiles over his water glass. “You did get me arrested. And stabbed. More than once.”

“Yeah, sorry about that.” Stiles rubs at the back of his head.

“But I guess something changed, though I can’t put my finger on what, exactly. But you still annoy the hell out of me sometimes.”

“Yeah, well, you annoy me, too, Mr. I’m Too Cool for All This.”

Derek leans forward so he can rest his chin on his fist and wink at Stiles, eyes smoldering. “I am too cool for all this.”

“I will punch you. And just so you know, if you had asked me out sooner, I would’ve said yes.” Stiles thinks he’s going to melt into a pool of embarrassment as he says this, and he looks away from Derek.

“Damn, I should’ve asked sooner.”

Their pizza arrives, piping hot and delicious smelling. Stiles’ stomach growls, and he eagerly dishes himself up a slice. “I’m so excited for this.” He lifts it to his mouth before it has a chance to cool and, of course, burns his tongue and chokes. “Hot, hot, hot.” He drops the slice back to the plate and chugs a painful swallow of Coke. “It’s hot,” he tells Derek.

“I can see that.”

“But not as hot as you.” Oh God, Dean is rubbing off on him.

He finally makes Derek choke and breaks that cool façade. Derek coughs, spluttering, and puts his water glass down. Proud of himself, Stiles tries the pizza again and finds it’s cool enough to chew, and he digs in. It’s delicious, as always.

After that, things smooth out, and it’s just like they’re hanging out on any other day. Stiles throws back his head and laughs, and Derek’s small smile is enough to light up the room in Stiles’ opinion. When they finish, Derek insists on paying – his death glare silences any protest before Stiles can open his mouth – and then they leave the restaurant. Stiles loops his arm through Derek’s as they go.

When they get to the Camaro, Derek catches Stiles hand before he can head around to the passenger seat, pulling him close. Derek’s mouth is on his before Stiles can ask what’s going on. Stiles’ knees go weak, and he’s pretty sure his soul has left his body. Heat radiates off Derek, and his stubble tickles Stiles’ cheeks as he slides his hands around Derek’s waist and tugs him a little closer.

He hears a loud whistle and breaks away from Derek to see Scott slowly cruising by on his bike. “Yeah, get it, Stiles!” he yells.

“I will kill you!” Stiles shouts back and feels the low rumble of Derek’s laughter under his hands.

Scott cackles in amusement and zips away.

“I will kill him,” Stiles repeats, rolling his eyes and shaking his head at Derek, earning a laugh.

Stiles climbs into the passenger seat, glowing. He went on a date and made out with Derek Hale – the hottest guy in Beacon Hills, nay, the whole damn world – so if the empusa rips his throat out tonight, he can die happy.

* * *

Lydia shows up at the Pack house around noon and walks right in without knocking, her heels clicking on the porch. She’s come to talk to Sam, and she finds him sitting in the living room with one of those leather bound, archaic books. He looks up at the sound of her heels, smiling at her. “Lydia, hey, what’s up?”

“Is anyone else around?” she asks, feeling tense and hoping he won’t notice.

He shakes his head. “Nope, it’s just me.”

“Cool, cool.” She nods a couple of times and perches abruptly on an armchair. “I wanted to talk to you.”

He closes the book and sets it on the coffee table, sitting up so he can give her his full attention. He nods for her to continue. “The people you’ve killed…” she begins, jumping right in, and immediately, she sees him tense, sees his face close up. She presses on. “Why did they have to die?”

He stares at her a long time, so long Lydia thinks he won’t answer. “Because there wasn’t any other way. Because they were going to kill me or my brother or someone else. Because they were monsters who cared only about themselves and didn’t care how many people they had to kill to get what they wanted.”

“Have you ever killed anyone innocent?”

Again, that stare, those eyes boring into her, calculating but also so, so sad. “Yes.” The word is heavy. “Accidents happen. And sometimes, we were wrong about the monster’s identity.” Sam doesn’t elaborate any further, and Lydia gets the feeling that if she presses, she’ll receive nothing.

“How many?” she asks instead. He raises an eyebrow. “How many have you killed? Do you know the number?” It’s important to her that he does.

“I do,” Sam says.

“How many?” she asks again, unsure whether or not she wants to know the answer.

Sam shakes his head, looking away from her. “That number is mine to bear and no one else’s.” His eyes are shadowed as he says this, and the banshee inside Lydia wakes up, showing her the weight of all those deaths upon him. She doesn’t ask for a more specific answer. Instead, she smiles gently.

“Thank you for telling me the truth,” she says. “How about you and I get coffee sometime?”

“What?” Sam asks, startled by the sudden shift in conversation.

“You. Me. Coffee. Date.” Lydia smiles, eyes smoldering, and casually tucks her hair behind her ear. In truth, she does so to cover up her sudden nerves.

“No,” Sam says quietly.

A shock goes through Lydia, her fingers stilling in her hair as her heart tries to take a running leap off a cliff. No one’s ever said no to her before, but that’s not what really has her shocked; she actually, really likes Sam, and she thought he liked her back. “What?” she says.

“I can’t go out with you. Please don’t take this the wrong way, because I do really like you, and if I were anyone else, I’d go out with you in a heartbeat, but I can’t. The people I care about always end up dead or worse. I won’t risk that happening to you.”

“I can take care of myself.”

“I know that. So could they. I don’t know how many times Dean has died to protect me. He sold his soul and went to Hell to bring me back to life. I can’t keep letting that happen.”

“So you’re just going to shut everyone out?” Lydia asks. That seems like an incredibly stupid idea. She tells him so, and he laughs bitterly.

“It’s better than watching everyone around me die.”

She throws her hands into the air in exasperation. “I’m a banshee. _I sense death._ I think I’d be able to sense my death coming and avoid it.”

“It’s not a chance I’m willing to take.” Sam shakes his head, running a hand through his long hair. That strange, off-task part of her mind wonders if he’s ever tried to braid it and if he’ll let her do so.

“But I am!” She lunges to her feet, a flash of anger coursing through her.

“No.” Sam stands – slower than she had – and gathers his book. “I’m sorry, Lydia, but that’s the last I’m going to say about this. My answer is no.” He leaves her in the living room, and she hears him walk up the stairs. Lydia wonders if she should go after him, but she heard the tone of his voice. He’s not going to budge on this. At least, not right away.

* * *

Minus Dean and Cas, Stiles and Derek are the last to arrive at the Pack house for their final planning session before that night’s party. They come in inauspiciously – not holding hands, not even walking that closely together, but the instant Scott sees them, he starts singing at the top of his lungs. _“Derek and Stiles sitting in a tree, K-I-S-S-I-N-G!”_

Stiles yelps and lunges at him, and they go over the back of the couch Scott’s sitting on, hitting the floor in a tangle of limbs as Scott cackles.

“Were you guys on a _date_?” Erica demands with a gasp.

Cora laughs and takes up Scott’s song. _“First comes love, then comes marriage, then comes a baby in a baby carriage!”_ The rest of the Pack bursts into peals of laughter.

“You’ll all live to regret this, mark my words,” Derek promises, his eyes glowing red briefly, and all the werewolves gulp.

Stiles lets Scott up with one last punch, and Scott grins cheekily as he stands. He tousles Stiles’ hair. “I’m happy for you.”

Stiles goes very red.

The Pack collects itself – though only marginally because they’re almost always on the verge of cracking up at some joke or the other – and sits itself down. Stiles steals Scott’s spot by Allison, and Scott stands beside Derek in front of the TV, a position of equal power. “Sam, where are Dean and Cas?” he asks.

Sam shrugs. “I haven’t seen them since last night. They were gone when I woke up.”

“I saw them this morning,” Stiles pipes up. “They were at my house.

“But the Impala is out front,” Boyd says, looking towards the window where the corner of the Impala’s roof can be seen.

“Cas must’ve teleported them, but why the hell aren’t they back? Dean knew we were meeting at this time.” Sam pulls his phone out and calls Dean’s number. Scott hears it go to voicemail without ringing once. Sam curses and tries Cas’s phone but the same thing happens. He looks up at Scott and Derek, shaking his head.

“Since you, Cora, and I can’t get into the party as we aren’t students, we’ll go check Stiles’ house out before we go to make the perimeter,” Derek says, and Sam nods in thanks.

After that, they formulate the rest of the plan, Scott leading the discussion for the most part with occasional interjections by Derek. Then they get ready to move. Scott frowns when he sees Sam pull Derek, Cora, Allison, and Boyd to the side, sees him hand them all slim stakes, sees those stakes disappear up shirt sleeves. He grits his teeth, and Derek looks over at him, eyes hard and unapologetic. They’re going to have to talk later, but Scott knows now is not the time.

They leave the Pack house, splitting up into their various cars, and Scott slings a leg over his bike, putting his helmet on. He leads the little caravan through town and into the woods. The senior party is at an old, abandoned silo about fifteen minutes outside of Beacon Hills. The road leaves the trees and crests a steep hill, revealing the field of golden wheat that stretches out across the valley and the rickety, rusted silo in the center. The tower – rust red with panels missing in places – rises up into the air, and Scott can already see colored lights spilling out of the empty spaces, and a whole fleet of cars is parked in the wheat.

He coasts down the hill and comes to a stop at the edge of the makeshift parking lot, Lydia’s Prius, Allison’s red car, and Stiles’ battered Jeep pulling up beside him. The pounding sound of dance music replaces the rumble of engines when all the vehicles shut off. The Pack, minus the non-high school members (Stiles is pretty sure he’ll be able to get in), heads towards the open silo door.

The boy manning the door – a kid in Scott’s history class – looks like he’s already had about four drinks. “Hey, dudes, wassssup?” he yells and socks Scott in the shoulder. “Head on in! It’s a par-tay!”

The Pack files past him, and they split up into smaller groups. Scott heads off deeper into the party with Stiles and Allison. It seems like most of the senior class has already arrived and are grinding against each other, arms in the air, as the music pulses through the circular tower, a breeze sifting through the missing panels. A series of staircases and metal walkways line the walls, climbing towards the towering ceiling, and Scott pushes through the crowd to the base of one of those staircases.

He jogs up, Stiles and Allison right behind him, winding higher and higher until he reaches a narrow walkway that stretches over to the opposite wall. Scott and the others keep to a crouch as they cross the catwalk, though he isn’t worried about anyone noticing them, and they stop in the middle, staying low. Allison passes him the moon sage, Stiles the Dyer’s root, and Scott takes the powdered kemwood out of his own pocket. He also pulls out a glass bottle and some twine. The three ingredients get combined in the jar, and then he lights the whole thing on fire, tying the twine around the end and hanging it upside down from the catwalk so the smoke can drift down onto the partiers.

Scott, Allison, and Stiles head back down to the ground and prepare more of the jars, holding them so that the smoke wafts out as they circulate throughout the party. Through the crowd, Scott can see the rest of the Pack doing the same thing. He wishes he could just relax and dance, enjoy this final moment of his senior year, but of course, there’s work to be done and a town to save, and he hopes Derek and the others are in position. If they do discover the empusa, they’re going to need all the help they can get. Especially if she gets out of the silo.

Scott glances down at his jar and the little wisps of smoke curling out. It doesn’t seem like very much at all. Maybe it’s very potent or the empusa is incredibly sensitive.

A half hour later, Scott passes a tall, slender girl with black hair that cascades down her shoulders, her pale face curled into a smile. He’s zoned out a little bit, which he knows is terrible, but the scent of all these bodies and the alcohol along with the lights and pulsing music is more than a little distracting. Allison catches his hand before he can move on to the next cluster of dancers, pulling him back. He looks at her with an eyebrow raised.

“Look,” she says and nods towards the girl they just passed.

She sneezes violently, practically lifting off her feet, and as Scott watches, a red rash spreads up her neck, and she itches at it furiously. “Text the others,” Scott says to Stiles, and Stiles opens up the Pack group chat on his phone, fingers flying as he takes a sneaky photo of the girl. She rubs her nose and begins to push through the crowd towards the door, and Scott, Allison, and Stiles trail after her as Stiles keeps the Pack updated. Scott can see the others moving in the same direction.

“Isaac says that’s Elena, a girl in his math class,” Stiles whispers to Scott and Allison.

Elena leaves the silo and walks off towards the wheat, still sneezing, and Scott pauses before the wide doors. Once the rest of the Pack has gathered, they drift outside, trying to look like they’ve just stepped out for a breath of fresh air. Scott hands his jar of smoke to Stiles then heads over to the girl. “Hey, you’re Elena, right?” he says, smiling disarmingly.

She eyes him suspiciously. “Why?”

“I’m friends with Isaac.” He gestures behind him. “I thought I’d introduce myself.”

She opens her mouth to say something but sneezes instead, and then, narrow-eyed, she leans forward and sniffs him, sneezing again. Her eyes flash red, like a cat’s rather than a wolf’s. “What is that?” she hisses. Her features change, turning sharp and feline, eyes huge and glowing. Scott feels heat rise up in his eyes in response. “Fucking werewolves.” Her hand slams into his chest, long claws ripping his skin, and he flies back, hearing the Pack scatter as he crashes into the wheat.

Scott scrambles upright just in time to see Boyd disappearing into the field on the opposite side of the path. Stiles pops up above him and seizes his arm, dragging him upright. “Come on, get up. Allison’s gone back to the car to get her bow, and the others are giving chase.”

The wounds on his chest have healed, and he and Stiles take off after Boyd and the others. The wheat whips around him, slashing at his arms and face, and he follows the trail of burnt cinnamon and metal and broken stalks. He doesn’t howl, not with the party so close; he just runs after his Pack, and he catches up to them in a circle of flattened wheat. Elena has shifted into her full empusa form. Her brass leg glints in the sun, poking out from under her short dress, and her furry, goat leg snaps up to kick Erica in the chest. She flies off into the field. Sam, Derek, and Cora aren’t here yet.

“Stop, we just want to talk!” Scott yells, rushing forward.

Elena hisses at him, cat eyes flashing, a forked tongue flickering out from beneath her teeth.

Derek crashes through the wheat, closely followed by Cora and Sam whose gun is drawn – Dean and Cas aren’t with them – and Derek immediately leaps at Elena, already fully shifted, but Elena bats him away like he’s made of air. Sam fires once, twice, but the bullets glance off Elena’s skin. The Pack tries to circle around her, and Scott can see that there’s no way they’re going to get her to calm down enough to talk. But maybe they can contain her.

The Pack tightens the circle, and Elena hisses at them, spinning to try to keep them all in sight. Cora and Boyd both have those stakes in their hands, the ones Sam handed out, and when Elena sees them, her eyes flash. Then she lunges at Lydia, clawed fingers outstretched, and Sam fires again as Isaac tries to tackle her, but when his arms go around her waist, she doesn’t even stumble, and they crash into Lydia. Isaac is forced to let go of Elena to try and protect Lydia from the flailing claws, and in the confusion of limbs, Elena is able to roll away and take off into the wheat.

Derek follows, arms pumping, and Scott drops to his knees beside Lydia at the same time as Sam. “Are you okay?”

Lydia pushes Isaac off. “I’m fine.” She takes Sam’s hand and lets him help her up.

“She’s gone.” Derek appears in the clearing again, grimacing. “Disappeared into the wheat.”

Sam curses, and the mutual feeling sweeps through the Pack. “At least we know who the empusa is now,” Allison says, trying to be optimistic. She showed up with her bow too late to fire any arrows.

The scent of burnt cinnamon and metal is everywhere but so is the dusty smell of wheat, and Scott can’t figure out where the freshest trail goes. The Pack searches the field until the party ends, but they come up empty, and then, dejected and covered in a fine golden powder that makes Stiles sneeze, they head back to the parking lot.

Stiles leans up against his Jeep. “What did you find?” he asks Derek, Cora, and Sam.

“Not much.” Sam sounds frustrated, and he shoves his gun through the back of his belt. “At lot of your stuff was knocked over like a big wind blew through, but other than that,” he shakes his head, “no sign of them.”

“And their phones still aren’t working?” Allison asks.

Another shake of the head. “I’m sure they’re fine,” Sam says, trying to sound like he’s convinced of that. “Dean and Cas can take care of themselves.”

“What are those stakes?” Scott demands. He doesn’t mean to jump on them like this, but the words are out of his mouth before he can stop them. He’s looking at Sam as he says this.

“They’re olive branches. The only way to kill the empusa is with a stake made from an olive branch and tipped with her own blood.”

“The Greek olive tree you had Crowley get” Scott says, remembering the scene at the hospital.

“Dr. Crowley?” Lydia asks.

“He’s a demon. I’ll explain later.” Red flashes through Scott’s irises as he turns his attention back to Sam. “I said we’re not going to kill her!”

“They were just a precaution,” Sam says in his overly calming voice.

“And why did you shoot at her?” Scott stalks right up to Sam, but he has to tip his head all the way back to look into the other man’s face, so he doesn’t feel terribly intimidating.

“She was attacking us,” Sam answers bluntly. “And they didn’t even hurt her.”

Scott is very aware that the rest of the Pack is watching this exchange. He’s also aware that Sam is not Pack, and he has to treat this situation differently than if he were arguing with one of his wolves. “That’s not the point. The point is that we want to help her.”

“You’re idealistic,” Sam says.

“Okay, we are not having this argument again,” Derek cuts in, literally stepping between them. He pushes Scott back a step.

Scott stays quiet. He supposes the middle of a wheat field with a bunch of humans streaming by isn’t the best place to have this argument, but he’s not going to let it drop. He and Sam will have this conversation again. He sees in Sam’s eyes that he, too, knows this isn’t over.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I realized halfway through that final scene that California probably does not have wheat fields and abandoned silos - that seems like a mostly Midwest thing - but by then I was too far into the scene and too lazy to change it. 
> 
> Thank you all for your lovely comments - I love hearing from you, and it means a lot to me that you enjoy this story so much!


	15. Preparation for the Hunt

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey sorry it's been so long! It's been of case of knowing where the story is going (kind of) but not how to get there. Fair warning, this chapter is not super great and kind of filler-y, because I felt like I just need to get something posted.

Chapter Fifteen

Preparations for the Hunt

It’s the day after the senior party, and they’re all back at the Hale house. There’s still no sight of Dean or Cas, and Sam is starting to get worried. It’s like they just vanished off the face of the planet.

Most of the Pack is in the living room, discussing their strategy for finding Elena, the empusa, with Derek and Stiles leading the way, but Scott grabs Sam’s arm and pulls him down the hall into the kitchen. “We need to talk,” he says.

“Yes,” Sam agrees. He leans up against the counter.

“I don’t understand how you can be so callous about killing a teenage girl.” Scott crosses his arms and tries to look tough and intimidating, but Sam is a half a foot taller than him at least, so he’s not really impressed. Instead, he sighs.

“Look, I understand where you’re coming from. I was a lot like you once. I thought everyone could be saved. I wanted to believe the best in people, but sometimes, they’re too far gone. Elena has killed people.”

“So have you, and you’re still a good guy,” Scott points out.

“She drains people of their blood, their very life force.” Sam pushes off the counter and walks over to Scott so he’s leaning over the other man just slightly. “You looked into her eyes, didn’t you?” Scott nods. “What did you see there?”

Scott is silent for a long time, and Sam can see the thoughts racing across his face. “Darkness,” Scott answers honestly. Sam nods, though Scott still has that stubborn, idealistic look in his eyes. “We can still bring her back to the light, though, right?”

“I don’t know,” Sam sighs. He, too, hopes it will be possible to save Elena without killing her, a hope that he tries to keep a lid on because he’s learned from past experiences that that sort of thinking gets more innocent people killed.

They rejoin the others. It doesn’t seem like much progress has been made on a plan. Sam suspects now that Elena knows they’re onto her, she’ll go ghost and and disappear. It’s what he would do. But at the same time, Elena is ruled in part by her hunger and her need to feed. So the question is, how big is that hunger and how much control does it have?

Sam falls into an armchair and lets out a long sigh. He could use a nap right about now. Something lasting six or seven hours. The whole Pack seems to be in a similar state. Sam sees glazed eyes and dark bags, and everyone’s fallen silent, not enough energy left to keep on planning. Lydia sits down on the corner of the couch closest Sam.

“Are you okay?” she asks.

He doesn’t look at her, remembering the conversation they had the other day. The one where she asked him out. God, how Sam had wanted to say yes. “Just tired,” he says. “Worried about Dean.”

“I’m sure he’s fine.” Sam knows it’s just a platitude – something she has to say because she doesn’t know what else to do – but he appreciates it anyways.

Across the room, Derek stiffens, his nostrils flaring. “Son of a bitch,” he growls and lunges to his feet, spilling Stiles off his lap. Scott sniffs, too, and curses, and Sam looks over at the other human Pack members, eyebrow cocked questioningly. Stiles shrugs as Derek storms towards the door.

Sam drags himself upright so he can follow. He steps into the entryway just as Derek yanks the door open. A middle-aged man stands on the porch. He’s quite a bit shorter than Derek, though their eyes match, and he has a short, blonde-grey goatee and moustache. Muscles pull at his long-sleeved shirt. “Peter? What the fuck are you doing here?” Derek demands.

Peter smirks, compact power rolling off him. The expression is slimy and full of itself. “That’s no way to greet your uncle, is it?” Peter says.

Derek gives him a flat stare.

Peter’s eyes flick past Derek to land on Sam, and he cocks his head to the side. “Who’s the moose?”

Sam scowls. He’s going to punch Crowley in the face for giving him that nickname one of these days. “Sam Winchester,” he says.

“Why are you here, Peter?” Derek repeats loudly, stepping forward so he’s right in Peter’s face.

That slimy smile doesn’t flicker. “I heard there was trouble in town again. I thought I’d come lend my assistance.”

“Why don’t I believe you?” Derek drawls sardonically.

“You don’t do anything unless you get something out of it,” Scott says, and Sam jumps. He hadn’t heard the werewolf come up behind him. At the sight of Scott, Peter’s lip visible curls.

“Do you want my help or not?” Peter asks.

“Not.” Derek swings the door shut in his face.

“I’ll be at the Bird’s Eye Inn if you change your mind,” Peter calls, and Sam hears his footsteps recede off the porch.

When Derek turns around, he’s livid, eyes flashing briefly red, but then he takes a deep breath and reins it all in. “Goddamnit, I thought he was gone for good.”

Sam’s not sure if he should say something, but he does so anyways. “We could really use all the help we can get.”

“Not Peter’s help,” Derek says, shaking his head. “He’s bad news.”

“I wouldn’t want his help if I were dangling off a cliff and he was the only one who could save me,” Scott agrees. “He’s the one who bit me and Lydia, then he tried to get me to kill all of my friends.”

“He tried to kill me, too,” Stiles adds. Most of the rest of the Pack is standing in the doorway to the living room. “He’s stabbed Derek on multiple occasions.”

“He’s almost killed me as well,” Allison adds. “And everyone else here.”

Sam concedes defeat. “Alright, we don’t want his help.”

Unfortunately, that still leaves them with no real leads and no clue as to what they should do next.

“I’m going to talk to Crowley,” Sam says. It’s the only thing he can think to do. “Maybe he knows something, either about Dean or the empusa.”

Scott’s fists clench at his side. “Let me come with.”

“No.” Sam shakes his head. “Crowley thinks your adorable. He’ll be more interested in winding you up than telling us what we need to know.”

“I’ll go,” Derek says in a voice that will brook no argument.

They take Derek’s Camaro since the Impala is still banged up from its encounter with Elena the empusa, and Sam is always mildly convinced that Dean will kill him if he even so much as adjusts the driver’s seat. Sam still doesn’t know Derek that well, and the werewolf is hard to read, even for Sam.

“That man who showed up the other night,” Derek says as he guides the Camaro around a turn, “are he and Dean together?”

Sam cackles, actually cackles. “I’ve got a bet going with a friend over if Dean will ever get over his weenieness and ask Cas out. Why do you ask?”

“I saw the way Dean looked at Cas when he showed up.” Impossibly, Derek drives even faster than Dean, though it’s hard to tell without looking at the speedometer because the Camaro drives much more smoothly than the Impala and Derek doesn’t skid around corners at breakneck speed like Dean does. “And his heartbeat jumps every time he looks at Cas.”

“I’ll let you in on the bet if you want,” Sam says. “I think they’ll get there eventually, but Bobby’s not so sure.”

Derek taps his fingers on the steering wheel as he thinks about it. “I’ll take that bet. I don’t think Dean will do it.”

Grinning, they shake on it, and Derek drives them deeper into the city. Sam may or may not have installed a tracker on Crowley’s phone, and the blinking red light leads them to the McCall house. Derek parks on the street, and Sam stretches as he steps out of the car. Melissa answers the door when he knocks, smiling at the sight of them. “Derek, Sam. What’s up? How can I help you?”

“We’re actually here to see Crowley?” Sam says.

“Oh sure. Gus is in the kitchen.”

Sam is never going to get used to hearing Crowley be called Gus. It’s just bizarre.

Melissa lets them into the house and directs them towards the kitchen. Crowley stands by the stove with a wooden spoon in his hand, wearing his customary black suit under a white apron that reads ‘Kiss the Cook’ when he turns to look at them. There’s a pot bubbling away on the burner, and Sam has to admit that it smells delicious, all tomatoes and spices.

“Moose, Wolfie,” he drawls, and Derek bristles.

“We need to talk,” Sam says.

Crowley sighs and puts the spoon down, fitting a lid onto the pot and turning the heat down. “Of course we do. What is it this time, boys? You find a cat stuck up a tree? You’ve forgotten where you put your car keys?”

“Dean and Cas are gone,” Sam says, glaring.

“So the two finally got their shit together and went off on a little honeymoon, so what?” Crowley takes off his apron, draping it across a chair at the kitchen table. “They’ll be back eventually.”

“That’s not it,” Sam corrects through gritted teeth. “They’re gone, as in, disappeared. Cas warped them over to Stiles’ house, but they never came back. There’s no trace of them.”

Crowley’s interest perks up when Sam says ‘warped’. “Feathers’ angelic powers are acting up?”

“Does he have insulting names for everyone?” Derek asks, but he gets ignored.

“I guess so,” Sam says, shrugging. “Do you know anything that might cause that?”

Crowley drums his fingers against the counter thoughtfully. “This town does have an odd energy to it. Something almost sinister. Doesn’t bother me much – King of Hell and all.” Sam rolls his eyes; Crowley has to toot his own horn every chance he gets lest he forget who he is. “But it’s definitely powerful.”

“The Nemeton tree,” Derek says suddenly, and both Crowley and Sam turn to look at him.

“What?” Sam asks.

“There is a supernatural force in this town beyond the werewolves and other creatures,” Derek explains, hands stuffed in his pockets. “It’s called the Nemeton tree. It acts as a sort of beacon, drawing supernatural beings here. Maybe that’s what’s interfering with your friend’s powers.”

Sam gives him a flat look. “There’s a beacon in Beacon Hills?”

Derek shrugs. “I know. It’s super dumb.”

“Why are you only mentioning this now?”

“Sorry. I didn’t make the connection until just now.” Derek spreads his hands out.

Sam takes a step towards him. “Do you know where it is?”

“It only lets you near when it wants to be found,” Derek says, grimacing. “Stiles, Scott, and Allison found it once, but who knows if they’ll be able to do it again.”

“Do you know anything about it?” Sam turns to Crowley, but the demon shakes his head. “Would you tell us if you did?”

Crowley grins at him, though it’s more like he bares his teeth, and Sam wants to punch him. “If there was something in it for me. But I assure you, this time, I’m as clueless as you always are.”

Sam ignores the barb. He’ll have to call Bobby later. “Let’s go,” he says to Derek.

They say goodbye to Melissa (not to Crowley) and leave the house, heading back to the car. As Derek drives, Sam calls Bobby who picks up after the third ring. “What?” his gruff voice snaps.

“Bobby? It’s Sam?”

“I know how Caller ID works, idjit.”

Sam flushes a little with embarrassment. “Have you ever heard of something called the Nemeton tree?”

The other line is silent so long that Sam thinks the call has dropped. “Bobby?”

“Stay away from the Nemeton tree, Sam,” Bobby says.

“What, why?” Sam says, glancing over at Derek, because he knows the werewolf is listening to every word. “Dean and Cas are missing, and we think the tree has something to do with it.”

“Stay away from the Nemeton tree,” Bobby repeats, and then he hangs up.

Sam stares at his quiet phone. “What the fuck, Bobby?” he mutters. Bobby never keeps information from them, especially if Sam or Dean’s lives are in peril. How dangerous is this tree if even _Bobby_ is afraid of it? “Shit.”

“We’ll ask Deaton,” Derek says to reassure him though it sounds like it’s not a natural tone of voice on him. “He’s the one who helped Stiles and the others find the tree last time.”

Sam nods, but he can’t deny the pit of nerves crawling in his stomach.

On the way back to the Pack house, they stop by the veterinary clinic and let themselves inside. Deaton’s mountain ash barrier is closed, but Sam pushes the gate open so Derek can pass through. “Deaton?” he calls.

There’s a clash and a clatter from the back, then a muffled curse. Sam glances over at Derek, and they quickly walk into the treatment room of the clinic, Sam’s hand drifting beneath his denim jacket to his gun. Deaton crouches by one of the metal counters, a tray and various surgical equipment scattered across the floor. When he hears them enter, he looks up, sheepish. “You startled me.”

Deaton doesn’t really seem like the type of person who startles.

Sam moves his hand away from his gun, and he and Derek move to help Deaton clean up. “Sorry about that.”

“Thanks,” Deaton says once the tray and its contents are back on the counter. “How can I help you?”

“We need to find the Nemeton tree,” Sam says.

Deaton drums his fingers against the counter as he regards them. “I’d hoped we were done with that tree.”

“My brother is missing. We think the tree has something to do with it.”

“We know the tree is hard to find,” Derek adds. “That’s why we came to you.”

“Not just hard to find,” Deaton corrects, rubbing his goatee. “Nearly impossible.”

Sam grits his teeth. “Nearly isn’t impossible.”

“True.” Deaton gives him a nod. “Alright. Meet me here after sunset tonight.”

* * *

 

 While Derek and Sam are off talking to Crowley, King of Hell (Stiles thinks that’s the coolest shit ever and wishes he had been at Beacon Hills High School this year so he could’ve had the King of Hell for a teacher), Stiles comes up with a plan to find Elena.

He sends Erica, Boyd, and Cora to stake out her house because she has to come back at some point so her parents don’t worry (though Stiles isn’t entirely sure she actually has parents), and Allison and Isaac head back to the site of the senior party to see if they can find a scent trail and maybe follow it to a den. He, Scott, and Lydia have errands to run.

Errands that are going to get him grounded if he gets caught.

Hang on, can his dad still ground him if he’s a college student? Best not to find out.

Lydia drives them to the police station since her car is less recognizable than Stiles’ battered, blue Jeep. They pull into a spot at the back of the parking lot and step out of the car. Stiles still has the copy of his dad’s key card that he made, so he and Scott head towards a side door while Lydia walks in through the front entrance to distract the officer at the desk. Scott leans against the wall to keep watch as Stiles swipes the card through the reader, pushing the door open.

Sheriff Stilinski may know about the supernatural world and understand Stiles’ role in fighting baddies, but that doesn’t mean he’s going to let Stiles steal from police lockup. So Stiles treads carefully as he moves through the precinct, peeking around corners and staying out of the trajectory of the security cameras, though hopefully, Lydia will keep anyone on duty from looking at them too closely.

Stiles threads his way to the evidence room and uses his fake card to unlock the door, checking around once more before letting himself inside. He knows exactly what he’s looking for and where it is, so he rifles through a couple of boxes until he finds a professional set of lock picks and a high tech tracker thing. Stiles doesn’t really know how it works, he just knows that it does.

His phone buzzes, and Stiles opens it up to find a message from Lydia that reads ‘SOMEONE’S COMING’. Stiles stuffs the stolen goods into his pockets and pokes his head out the door, glancing in either direction. Then he darts down the corridors, skidding around a corner just before an officer comes walking up the way he came. He flattens himself against the wall, holds his breath, and waits. The officer troops by, and once she’s out of sight, Stiles takes off, walking quickly until he reaches the side door.

He shoves it open, and Scott leaps up from the wall in surprise. “You got it?”

“Yeah, let’s go.”

Stiles texts Lydia, and they meet her back at the car. Stiles forces Scott into the backseat and props his feet up on the dash while he checks the Pack group chat. Lydia glares at him out of the corner of her eye, smacking his Converse down. “Boyd says the house is empty. Has been for about an hour. We should go now.”

Lydia drives them there and parks a block away. “Are we sure this is such a good idea?” Scott asks as he climbs out of the car.

“My ideas are always good ones,” Stiles protests.

Scott and Lydia practically howl with amusement.

The three of them jog down the sidewalk and join up with Erica, Boyd, and Cora. “Alright, I need you four to keep watch outside while Scott and I go in,” Stiles says.

“Why do you get to go inside?” Cora asks, sounding disappointed. “You two always get the fun jobs.”

Stiles holds up the set of lock picks. “Do you know how to use these?”

Cora is forced to shake her head. “We can break the lock,” Erica says, eyes eager.

“The point is to make sure that we don’t leave any trace of our presence,” Stiles says. “Just keep watch and text us if anyone comes.”

Begrudgingly, Erica and Cora agree, and the four of them split off to cover the corners of the house, leaving Stiles and Scott standing near the front walk. “We’re not going to get arrested if we’re caught, are we?” Scott asks as they walk towards the door.

“Probably not.”

“That’s comforting.”

Scott covers him and watches the quiet street while Stiles crouches down, opens up the leather pouch, and selects two thin strips of metal to slide into the lock. He fiddles around with them, feeling out the tumblers, then grabs two different picks. His tongue pokes out, the world drops away, and eventually, the lock clicks. “Yes!” Stiles cheers quietly. He turns the knob and pushes the door open.

Scott steps through first and sniffs, just to make sure it’s all clear, and then they open doors until they find Elena’s room on the second floor, careful not to displace anything. The house shows obvious signs of habitation. There are pictures on the mantle of Elena at various stages of her life with a man and woman who have their arms around her. The colors are warm and homey, and magazines and flowers litter all the surfaces, a man’s jacket tossed across the arm chair.

Elena’s room is painted purple, and nature posters cover the walls. The bed dominates the floor, covered in blankets and pillows, and Stiles is careful to keep his dirty shoes off the thick carpet as he skirts around to the cluttered desk. His fingers are nimble, barely touching anything as he searches it. He finds Elena’s phone within a few minutes, and he pops the back off, sliding one of the little trackers inside before sealing it up again.

“Someone’s coming,” Scott says from across the room, and Stiles jumps, sending a cascade of papers and folders to the floor.

“Shit,” he hisses.

Hurriedly, he and Scott shove the papers back onto the desk, trying to arrange them how they were before. Stiles doesn’t think they succeed, but there’s no time, because both their phones are pinging with messages that they should get the fuck out of there. Scott yanks the window open and knocks out the screen, motioning for Stiles to go first.

Stiles flings himself through without a second thought, plummeting through the air and hitting the ground behind a tall hedge bush. Once Scott lands, they run away from the house, skirting away from the direction Boyd said Elena’s parents are coming from.

The others meet them at Lydia’s car. “You manage it?” Cora asks.

Stiles nods. When they get back to the Pack house fifteen minutes later, he loads the second part of the tracking device onto his computer then spins his chair so he can face the others, hands laced behind his head, a grin on his face. “Done. Now, hopefully, we can track her wherever she goes.”

* * *

 

Allison and Isaac take Allison’s car back to the abandoned silo, hoping to pick up Elena’s trail that will lead them to a den outside her house. Allison drums her fingers against the steering wheel the whole drive, lost in thought.

“Allison?”

_“Allison.”_

Isaac has to say her name several times and reach over to still her hand before he can get her attention. She jumps and nearly sends them off the road, jerking them back into the lane at the last moment. She looks over at Isaac apologetically. “Sorry.”

“What’s wrong?” he asks.

Allison sighs. “My dad and I weren’t on good terms when I left. I don’t like arguing with him, and, well, I’m worried he’s going to do something stupid.”

(Chris Argent is, in fact, at that moment, prepping his guns for a hunt).

“You and your dad always make up,” Isaac says with a smile. “You’ve got a good relationship. He just needs a little time.”

“I hope that’s the case.”

She parks on the flattened wheat around the abandoned silo, and she and Isaac climb out of the car, walking over to the site of the brief scuffle with the empusa. Isaac sniffs at the air while Allison examines the faint tracks left over, bow slung across her shoulder. She sees a few odd prints that look like Elena’s leading off into the distance, but after a few feet, they disappear.

“Over here,” she calls. “Smell anything?”

Isaac comes over to her, nose twitching, but then he sneezes. “Sorry. There’s too much dust.”

“It was worth a shot. Come on, let’s return to the Pack house.”

Hand in hand, they walk back to the car. A figure waits for them, leaning against the hood of the vehicle, head tipped forward so that her long, black hair covers her face. Allison and Isaac freeze. The stranger tips her head back to reveal Elena’s pale, angular face. Allison feels Isaac’s hand tense in her, and she lets go to unshoulder her bow. But Elena stands up and gives her a look, so she stops.

“What do you want?” Isaac asks coldly.

Elena stalks towards them, all feral grace and cool power. “I want you and your little Scooby Doo gang to leave me alone.”

“So you’re going to stop killing people?” Allison asks, eyebrow raised.

“What I do is none of your business.” She’s only about five feet away from them now. “This is the only warning you’re going to get.”

“And if we don’t take it?” Hair sprouts on Isaac’s face as his claws and fangs extend, and his eyes begin to glow.

“Then I drain you all.”

Allison pulls her bow off her shoulder and knocks an arrow. “Yeah, that’s a hard pass.”

Elena flashes forward, and her fist slams into Isaac’s chest. Allison hears bones break. Then Elena breaks both his arms and slashes her claws across his stomach. Allison looses an arrow, but Elena is gone as quickly as she appeared, and Allison is left with a broken, bleeding Isaac and a car whose engine has a hole punched through it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think I'm going to take a short break from this story; I've been feeling a little burnt out on it and want to put it aside for a bit. So I'm going to take this month off, then November for National Novel Writing Month, so hopefully look for a new chapter in December. In the meantime, I'm hoping to have the Parallel World Interlude done before November, so keep an eye out for that. I've got three out of maybe 5-6 chapters done.


	16. Teamwork Makes the Dream Work

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, I'm back! Did you miss me? Man, taking that break for Nanowrimo did wonders for this story - I know just what's going to happen next. In case you haven't seen it, I've posted the story of Dean and Cas's adventures in the parallel world. It's quite a jaunt, please check it out. And please also enjoy this upcoming chapter :)

As promised, Derek and Sam return to Deaton’s veterinary clinic at sunset. They haven’t seen the rest of the Pack yet, since when they arrived at the Hale house, there was no one home. Sam disappeared with his laptop to try and look up whatever he could on this Nemeton Tree. For once, he came up completely empty. It was totally bizarre.

As they pull up to the clinic in Derek’s Camaro, Sam remembers Bobby’s visceral reaction to hearing the Nemeton Tree’s name. What is so bad about it that even _Bobby_ is afraid of it? The windows of the clinic are shuttered, but there are lights on inside, so Derek and Sam leave the car and knock on the door.

After a moment, Deaton unlocks the clinic and ushers them inside and to the back where he has a large pile of books, several glass jars, and various odd-looking implements set out. Derek stares at it all. “Should I be worried about this?” he asks.

“Maybe a little bit,” Deaton answers. “Now, the last time we tried to find the Nemeton Tree, we woke the beacon up, drawing all sorts of nasty supernatural creatures to town, and Stiles ended up getting body snatched by a Japanese trickster spirit. So this time, we’re going to try something a little different.”

“Wait, what?” Sam asks, bewildered.

“I’ll explain later,” Derek promises. He looks back at Deaton. “So what’s the plan?”

“I think I can create a sort of honing device, something that will lock onto the Nemeton Tree’s aura and lead you there.”

Sam nods and drums his fingers against the counter. “Dean and I have done similar things using a map and fire. It could work. What do you need us to do?”

“I’ve got all the ingredients here,” Deaton says, gesturing at the table and the miscellaneous items collected there. “At the end, I’ll need some of Derek’s blood to bind all the herbs together.”

“Of course you do,” Derek sighs.

They get to work. Well, Sam and Deaton get to work while Derek sits in the corner out of the way because this is not his area of expertise, and he nearly poisons all three of them by combining two wrong herbs and lighting them on fire. Deaton tells him to sit on his hands.

Sam draws a pentagram on the metal table in permanent marker – a little bit to Deaton’s consternation – and a copper bowl goes into the center of the circle. Mugwort for divination, sage for wisdom and guidance, and comfrey leaves and feverfew to protect the travelers go into the bowl, and Deaton sets the flame of his lighter to the small pile of herbs. They go up instantly, and when the fire has burned itself out, he pours a cup of water in and then motions for Derek to join them. Using a sterilized knife, he makes a cut on Derek’s forearm, dribbling the blood into the bowl while Sam stirs it all with a hazel rod.

Deaton pulls a pyramidal crystal from a velvet pouch and holds it so that it dangles from his fingers by its chain. The purple color is deep and infinite in the light. “This is a Wiccan pendulum, used for divination and answering questions.”

“I’ve seen them before,” Sam says.

Derek raises an eyebrow. “You guys are nerds.”

“Nerds with the ability to summon demons,” Sam corrects, grinning.

“Seriously?” Derek takes an actual step back.

“How do you think we get a hold of Crowley when he refuses to answer his phone?”

Deaton clears his throat to regain their attention, and Derek and Sam turn back to him a little sheepishly. “I’ll soak this in the herb mixture, and Sam, your job will be to hold it and focus all your attention on the Nemeton Tree.”

“How do I focus on something I know nothing about?” Sam asks.

“Huh.” Deaton’s brow furrows. “It’s a tree stump that used to be the largest, most powerful source of Druid magic in the world.”

“Right, that helps,” Sam says sarcastically.

Derek claps his hand on Sam’s shoulder. “You can do it.”

Sam has certainly done stranger and harder things. Like that time when he fought the Devil for control of his body. “What the hell, let’s give it a shot. What have we got to lose?”

“That’s the spirit.” Deaton lowers the pendulum into the sludge mixture and leaves it there for a minute. When he pulls it out again, bits of herbs stick to the crystal, dimming the deep purple color. He passes the chain to Sam.

Sam takes the pendulum and, gripping the top of the chain, dangles the crystal over his hand. Then he takes a deep breath and focuses his thoughts. Time to find a single tree in the forest. He pictures a tree trunk, a large one with roots that burrow deep into the ground and a crack running through the many, many concentric rings. There’s a slight clearing between it and the rest of the forest, and he imagines a low thrum coming out of it, burning into the air.

The chain twitches in his fingers, and the pendant swings towards his thumb, hanging there, suspended. Sam turns in a circle, and the pendulum spins so it’s always pointing in the same direction. “Holy shit,” Derek says.

“It actually worked,” Sam breathes, voice as quiet as he can so he doesn’t lose whatever mojo is making this work. “Let’s go.”

Derek and Sam hurry out to the Camaro, Sam focusing on his imagined tree as hard as he can as he leaps into the shotgun seat. Derek peels out of the parking lot at breakneck speed. “Which way?”

Sam watches the pendulum swing. “Left!” he yells.

Derek yanks on the wheel, and they skid around the corner, Sam fighting to keep the pendulum steady. They definitely don’t need to be going this fast. They could follow the traffic rules and be safe and law-abiding citizens, but where is the fun in that? It’s so much more exciting to drive like the devil himself is after them, something that Sam, surprisingly, has never actually experienced. A car chase with Satan. He wonders who would win. Probably Dean. Shit – focus on the damn tree; don’t get distracted.

He directs Derek through the streets, trying to find a route that follows the swing of the pendulum as closely as he can. Derek doesn’t slow down a lick to barrel around the corners, and it’s a miracle that they aren’t pulled over in the half hour they spend zipping across town. When they reach the forest line, they run out of road heading in the direction they need, so Derek slams on the brakes and parks the car off the side of the road.

Sam jumps from the Camaro, and the pendulum points directly north into the forest. “This way!” he shouts to Derek, the tense excitement making his voice louder than intended.

“Lead the way,” Derek says.

So Sam runs into the forest, long legs soaring across the leaf strewn ground, and Derek has no trouble keeping up with him. The werewolf isn’t even breathing hard. The pendulum swings to the left slightly, and Sam changes direction to follow it.

They run for maybe twenty minutes, over gentle hills and dips in the landscape, jumping a narrow creek, and Sam can feel a hum building up in the air. Then they break out of the trees into a small clearing, the pendulum falls limp in his hand, and there is a giant tree stump right in front of them, larger than anything Sam has ever seen before, innocuous looking except for the power leaking out of it into the open air.

“Holy shit,” is all Sam can say.

“I can feel it in my head,” Derek whispers.

But before they can approach it to investigate, Derek’s phone rings, and he answers it, setting it to speaker when he sees that it’s Stiles so that Sam can hear, too. “What’s up?” Derek asks.

“Where are you?” Stiles demands. “Isaac and Allison were attacked by Elena, and Isaac is hurt and isn’t healing.”

Derek’s face grows dark and protective. “What happened? Where are you?”

“Back at the house,” Stiles says. Sam can’t take his eyes off the stump of the Nemeton Tree as he listens to the phone conversation. He wants to touch it.

“Sam and I are in the forest. I can be back at the house in a half hour.”

“The forest? Which part? We’ve been tracking Elena’s movements with her phone, and she’s in the northern part of the Preserve.”

Derek looks over at Sam with wide eyes, and Sam has the sinking feeling that that’s exactly where they’re at.

And that is, of course, when a shape comes barreling out of the trees and tackles Sam. The world goes topsy-turvy as he crashes to the ground, and Derek drops his phone to leap forward to help, Stiles’ strained voice demanding to know what’s happening.

Sam and his assailant roll across the ground, grappling, dark hair in Sam’s face, his arms desperately trying to keep claws from lacerating his cheeks. He’s dropped the pendulum, and he can’t get at his gun, and then a pair of strong arms drag him upright and spin him around, and there are claws digging into his throat, the scent of cinnamon and metal in his nose.

“Don’t move or I’ll tear his throat out,” Elena growls at Derek.

Derek freezes but doesn’t put away his claws or glowing red eyes. “Let him go.”

Elena snorts. “Does that ever work?”

Derek pauses and then purses his lips. “Come to think of it, it hasn’t.”

“I’m going to take this moose of a man,” Sam groans and rolls his eyes, “with me, and if you don’t stop bothering me, I’ll kill him.” The claws dig into Sam’s throat more deeply, drawing blood, and Sam flinches.”

Before Derek can say anything else, Sam acts. He drives his heel into the top of Elena’s foot at the same time as he gets his fingers around her wrist and yanks her claws away from his neck. He manages to gain enough space to twist out of her grip, but she comes with him, fingers seizing the front of his shirt and tossing him so that he flies through the air, and when he lands, he cracks his head on the edge of the Nemeton Tree, and everything goes black.

* * *

Derek lunges, but the empusa moves even faster than he does, and she heaves Sam over her shoulder before Derek can even cross half the space between them. “Don’t,” she hisses, her claws curled over Sam’s spine.

Derek freezes, thinking it over. He’s not sure he can make it to Sam before Elena rips his spine out. He’s seen how fast she can move.

“Turn around and walk away,” Elena orders. “Now.” Her hand clenches, drawing blood.

Derek raises his hands. “Alright, alright.” He begins to back away, teeth gritted, trying to think of any way to free Sam from the empusa’s clutches. Elena hisses, and he takes that as a hint to go faster.

“Don’t stop until you can’t see me any longer,” she says.

Derek doesn’t think he has any other choice, so he turns and jogs into the trees for thirty yards, and when he looks back, he can’t see the Nemeton Tree’s clearing anymore. He curses and then races back, hoping to catch Elena by surprise, but when he bursts free of the forest, she’s gone. There is absolutely no trace of her or Sam, and the scent trails are all muddled up, the power rolling out of the tree throwing him off.

“Fuck,” he grumbles.

“Derek!” Stiles bellows from the ground. “Pick up the goddamn phone!”

Derek finds his cell and the pendulum, brushing bits of dirt off the screen. “Elena took Sam.”

“What?” Stiles yelps.

“There was nothing I cold do. Goddamnit.” Derek clenches his fist so that his claws punch into his palm. This is his fault.

“I can’t track her phone anymore. She must have ditched it or broken it. Derek, you need to get back to the house. Isaac’s in real bad shape. Scott has been trying to jumpstart the healing process, but it’s not working.”

Derek casts around the forest, searching again for any sign of Elena and Sam, but he sees nothing, and he forces himself to accept that the best plan is to regroup at the Pack house. “I’ll be there in thirty,” he growls and hands up.

He runs back to his car, slamming the accelerator all the way down, and when he arrives at the Pack house, he bangs up the stairs and through the door. “Isaac!” he bellows.

Allison appears in the archway to the living room. “In here.”

“What the hell happened?” Derek asks as he follows her. The whole Pack is gathered in the living room. Erica, Boyd, and Cora lurk in one corner, arms folded, looking like the world’s broodiest security team. Stiles, and Scott are poised over Isaac’s supine form on the couch. His shirt is off, his face contorted with pain, and four deep gouges run across his stomach, and his ribs are mottled with bruises.

“Isaac and I went back to the silo to try and pick up a trail, but Elena appeared out of nowhere, threatened us, and attacked Isaac,” Allison explains, crouching beside Scott and running her fingers through Isaac’s sweaty hair.

“Isaac’s not healing,” Scott says.

“I can see that,” Derek quips, but it falls flat.

Scott wrings his hands. “I’ve tried everything I can think of.”

Derek crouches down beside the couch and takes one of Isaac’s hands. “This is going to hurt.”

“Can’t be any worse than this,” Isaac groans.

Derek digs his claws deep into Isaac’s palm, drawing blood, and Isaac screams, arching his back, and Scott and Allison’s faces contort in sympathy. Derek sinks his claws in deeper and deeper, eyes flashing red as he turns Isaac’s head and forces the Beta to look at him. Isaac’s eyes go gold, and then, finally, the wounds in his stomach begin to close up, and Derek releases his hand. The lines made by Elena draw together, and the mottled, purple and green bruises fade away. The pain drainss from Isaac’s face along with the golden glow in his eyes, and he slumps down. Derek puts his claws away.

“Thank God,” Allison breathes.

Scott leans his head against the couch, sighing in relief.

“Where’s Sam?” Cora asks from her position in the corner.

“Elena ambushed us in the woods. She took him,” Derek explains curtly. “She says she’ll kill him if we don’t stop looking for her.”

“Well, obviously, that’s not going to happen,” Stiles says angrily.

“Right,” Derek agrees. “We’re going to need help.”

Scott lifts his head off the couch to give Derek an aghast look. “You don’t mean…?”

* * *

Crowley arrives first, appearing in Derek’s armchair with his legs folded and his fingers steepled together. He only agreed to come when Scott called because Scott told him that his mom has always wanted to go to Amsterdam. “Hello, puppies,” he says in his gravelly voice. “I hear you need help finding a moose.”

“I hate this guy,” Cora mumbles to Erica.

“ _That’s_ why all our chemistry tests were so hard,” Erica says. “It all makes sense now.”

Stiles scoots his chair right up next to Crowley, an eager expression on his face. “Hi, Stiles Stilinski here. Pleasure to meet you. Tell me all about Hell and demonology and yourself, and also, do you have any embarrassing stories about Sam and Dean?”

“Stiles.” Derek grabs the back of Stiles’ collar and drags him away, Stiles yelping indignantly the whole way.

Of course, Peter is late. Stiles is not surprised. Well, Crowley was late, too, but Peter is even more late, and the Pack plus Crowley sits awkwardly in the living room for twenty minutes before he arrives. Derek won’t let Stiles interrogate the King of Hell which is a major bummer because Stiles has so many questions. Crowley sits in Derek’s chair with a smug smile on his face, occasionally insulting them all.

Finally, the doorbell rings, and Derek hurries to answer it, Stiles on his heels. Peter’s obnoxious self waits on the porch, smirking. “What the hell, man?” Derek demands. “I called you forty minutes ago!”

“You’re lucky I showed up at all.” Peter shoves past the two of them and into the house, meandering into the living room. “Do you have any food?”

Stiles grabs Derek’s hand before he can punch it through the wall.

“You!” Peter’s strangled voice erupts from the living room, and when Stiles and Derek hurry to join the Pack, Peter stares at Crowley with wide, furious eyes, one finger pointed accusatorily at the demon. “I’m going to kill you!”

Peter launches himself across the room and, before anyone can stop him, tackles Crowley out of the armchair, claws out, blue eyes glowing. They crash to the ground and roll over and into the wall, and then Peter flies into the air, hits the ceiling, and lands on the coffee table, smashing it to pieces. With a growl, he springs back to his feet, face fully wolfed out. He lunges forward again, but Derek gets in between him and Crowley – who has regained his feet by now – and he snarls in Peter’s face, letting his Alpha red eyes glow.

“Sit the fuck down, Peter,” Derek snaps, pointing at the couch.

“I’m going to kill him!” Peter yells, jumping forward only to get shoved back by Derek again. Crowley smirks. “He’s the reason I spent two years as a rabbit!”

“What?” Stiles spits with surprise. He _definitely_ needs to hear this story. Peter glares at him.

Crowley tugs down the hems of his sleeves, and his smirk widens. “I remember you now. 2001, right? I turned you into a fluffy rabbit because you were drunk, and you tried to hustle me in pool.”

“And you left me in the hands of a five-year-old girl!” Peter shouts.

The entire Pack loses it at this point. Erica, Boyd, and Cora double over in their corner, leaning on each other for support, and Stiles actually falls to the floor, dragging Scott down with him. Even Derek barks out a laugh, right in Peter’s face, and his uncle turns so red his head looks like it’s going to explode. “I’m going to kill everyone in this room.”

“How did you get out of that one?” Crowley asks, voice curled with amusement.

Peter glares over Derek’s shoulder at the King of Hell. “I found a Druid. She tried to enslave me using pomegranate and chocolate. I barely got away from her.”

“You’re lying,” Derek says, head cocked to the side, grinning, and Peter scowls. His face is going to freeze like that, Stiles thinks.

Peter flounders. “Fine. I ate the damn chocolate. She turned me into a canary and kept me in a gilded cage. I don’t want to talk about this any more. What the hell did you need my help with?”

Stiles thinks he’s going to die from laughter. Oh my God, he’s never going to take Peter seriously over again. This is too fucking funny. He giggles again and chokes, and Scott pounds him on the back.

Derek tells the newcomers the situation. “So we need as much help as we can to find Sam, and we need to do it quickly.”

“What do I get out of helping you?” Peter asks. He’s still very grumpy, and he won’t stop glaring at Crowley.

“You’ll help us, or I’ll have Crowley turn you into a rabbit again,” Derek says. Behind him, Crowley moves forward while straightening his tie, a grin on his face.

Peter takes several quick steps back until he’s pressed against the wall as far from Crowley as he can get. “Fine. But afterwards, I’m going to rip that demon’s face off.”

“Only if you want to risk Melissa McCall’s anger,” Crowley says. “Because she quite likes this face.”

Scott gags while Peter goes even paler, if that’s at all possible.

“Let’s move out,” Derek says. “Crowley, do you have any way of finding the empusa?”

The Pack heads towards the front door and files out of the house. Derek picks up the two olive tree stakes that he keeps leaning in the corner by the door, slipping one through his belt and tossing the other to Cora. “Maybe,” Crowley says. “Let me take Puppy Dog and Bunny Rabbit with me.”

“Which one of us is Puppy Dog?” Boyd whispers to Erica.

“I think it’s Scott?” she replies.

“Yeah, sure,” Derek says despite the garbled protests on Scott and Peter’s parts. “It’s not a bad idea for us to split up. We’ll cover more ground that way. Stiles, Allison, and Isaac, come with me. Cora, you go with Erica and Boyd.”

“I should go talk to my father,” Allison says. “Maybe he can help, though I also think he kind of wants to kill Sam and Dean.”

Derek nods. “Sounds good – well, not the killing Sam and Dean part. Alright, everyone, keep your phones on and keep the group chat updated.”

“Aaaaaaand break, team!” Stiles yells, shoving his hand out to try and get everyone else to join him in a sports-team type hoorah. Peter pushes him over.

* * *

Sam swims back into consciousness with pins and needles in his hands and feet and an ache in his head. He stifles back a groan and leaves himself hanging limp as he attempts to suss out the situation. He’s sitting in a wooden chair with his hands bound behind his back and his ankles tied to the chair legs, the stone cold on his bare feet. The air around him is cool and has a subterranean feel, and he hears the buzz of an overworked light bulb overhead.

“I know you’re awake,” Elena says, voice dry.

Damn. Well, it was worth a try. Sam opens his eyes and lifts his head, rolling his neck as pain flashes behind his eyes. “Morning,” he says.

“It’s midafternoon.”

Elena lounges in a padded chair directly across from him, sucking on a lollipop, one leg dangling over the armrest. They’re in a basement with white painted cement walls and a grey floor, the naked bulb overhead and the chairs the only furniture in the room. A wooden staircase leads up to a door with chains running across it, and Sam is missing his shoes, jacket, belt, and gun.

“Same difference. Where are we?”

Elena barks out a laugh, but that’s the only response she gives.

Sam looks around a little more. The window set into the top of the wall has grass curling up over the bottom edge. “We’re in your parents’ basement, aren’t we?”

Elena blanches, dropping her dangling foot to the ground with a thud. “No,” she says a little too quickly.

“The lady doth protest too much, methinks,” Sam says with a grin.

Quick as a flash, Elena lunges across the space between them and punches him in the face, returning to her seat afterwards as if she had never moved in the first place. Sam spits blood on the ground and laughs slightly. “That’s cute. Girl, I’ve been tortured by the actual devil. A punch from you is like a walk in the park.” He waits, expecting her to hit him again, but she just sits in her chair and stares at him. “So I’m going to take your little outburst as a yes, we are in your parents’ basement. How did you manage to get me down here without noticing? And what’s your plan here? To keep me down here like a pet cat you don’t want your parents to know about?”

“Oh, my parents aren’t real,” Elena scoffs. “They’re glamors I created when I moved to town.”

That makes a lot of sense, actually.

“It’s not a bad plan, keeping me here,” Sam continues blithely, relaxing as far back in the chair as he can with his hands and feet bound like they are. “It’s probably the last place anyone will look. The Hale Pack will expect you to have me stashed away in some cave in the woods, yet here we are, hiding right in plain sight.”

Sam doesn’t say it, but he’s actually a little worried that the Pack will never think to look for him here because what kind of bad guy would be dumb enough to return to such an obvious and known hideout? Dean might think of it because Dean is a dumbass, but unfortunately, Dean is MIA right now. Sam needs to get a message to the Pack, stat.

“You know Derek and the others aren’t going to stop until they find you, especially since you now have me,” he says instead. “This doesn’t end well for you.”

Elena uncurls herself and stalks over to him, planting one knee on his leg and leaning forward to curl her claws around his throat, eyes glowing red. He smells cinnamon and metal. “You’re wrong. This doesn’t end well for _you_.”

She leaves three scratches on his neck as a parting gift and swings off him, sauntering up the stairs and out of the basement. Sam hears four locks engage behind her.

He waits a moment to make sure she’s not coming back, and then he starts to test the handcuffs on his wrists. They’re clasped tightly, hardly any wiggle room. His jacket and shoes lie in a heap near the door, and he wonders if his phone is still in the pocket. Oh God, he hopes so.

He jerks in his chair and manages to scoot himself forward a few inches. The wooden feet make a rather loud thud when they strike the ground, and he flinches, glancing up at the closed door. It doesn’t open. So he hops forward again, gaining another inch or two. It takes him about twenty minutes to cross the basement floor in this way, and he spends the entire time worried that Elena is going to come back down to check on him.

He arrives at his jacket and shoes and stares down at them for a moment, wondering how the hell he’s supposed to get at them now. Then, with a mighty heave, he tips his whole chair onto its side so that he’s lying with his back to his pile of things. This action makes a very loud thud and crack, and he whacks his already bruised head on the concrete floor. “Fuck me,” he mumbles.

The first lock on the door clicks. “Fuck me,” Sam says once more with feeling.

He fumbles blindly for his jacket pocket and the phone he hopes it contains. The second lock clicks. It’s really goddamn hard to do anything with his wrists handcuffed this tightly, but he manages to get his fingers into the first pocket. His phone is not there. The third lock clicks, and Sam curses. He fumbles the jacket around as the fourth lock gets undone, and they brush his phone, but Elena is clattering down the stairs. He finally gets his cell free, but then Elena is there, and she seizes the back the chair and yanks him upright. “What the hell?”

“I fell over,” Sam says. “It was an accident.”

She sees his phone on the floor. “You were trying to contact your friends.”

“What? Psh, no. How’d that get there?”

Elena slams her brass foot – her human glamor flickering away for a moment – down onto his phone, shattering it completely. Well, there goes that plan. Also, this is like the two hundredth phone he’s broken since Dean appeared in his dorm room all those years ago. He sighs. He has an extra phone in the glove box of the Impala, but that is…all the way across town. So. Contacting the Pack is officially off the table.

Elena drags his chair back to the center of the basement and sets him down with a thud that rattles his teeth. Then she slams her fist into his face. Sam’s head snaps to the side. She hits him again, from the other direction, and blood sprays from his mouth. Next thing he knows, his chair is tipped over, and his head smacks the ground, the same corner of his forehead that he banged on the Nemeton Tree’s trunk. Stars flash across his vision. Elena kicks him in the stomach, driving her brass foot in deep, and all his air leaves him in a rush. She kicks him again and again, stomps on his thigh with her goat hoof, and throughout it all, Sam grits his teeth and doesn’t make a sound.

Finally, Elena grows fed up, and she swings her brass foot so that it collides with his chin, and Sam is knocked unconscious again. He’s getting real tired of this.

* * *

Allison sits in her car outside her house for a long time, simply staring at the brightly lit windows. Her dad’s SUV is parked in the driveway, so she knows he’s home. That’s the reason she’s just sitting here. She takes a deep breath and forces herself out the door and up the porch steps. “Dad?” she calls as she lets herself in.

Chris appears in the entrance hall, arms folded, looking peeved. Allison swallows heavily. “Finally come home, hm?” he says. “Let me guess. You’ve been with the Winchesters.” He spits out the name.

“We need your help,” Allison says instead of answering. “Elena, the empusa, she has…Stiles.” Her dad likes Stiles. Chris wouldn’t want anything to happen to him. “She ambushed him and Derek while they were walking in the forest. Derek couldn’t stop her. We need all the help we can get to find them.”

“Will the Winchesters be there?”

“No. Dean went missing a few days ago. Sam is off looking for him.”

“Figures,” Chris snorts, finally unfolding his arms only to plant his hands on his hips. “The only thing those two care about are each other, and damn everything else that might get in the way of the other’s safety, even to the point of letting the world die. They don’t actually care about you, Allison. Or anyone else in your Pack.”

Allison grits her teeth but doesn’t try to contradict him because her dad is obviously in his ‘I’m a stubborn asshole, and I will not be denied’ mood. “Are you going to help us or not?” she asks. “Stiles is in danger.”

“Fine. Give me five minutes.” Chris walks past her to the garage where they keep a lot of their weapons. Allison jogs up to her room to her closet, opening it to pull out her longbow, her quiver with its specialty arrows, and her two triangular knives. She slings the quiver and bow over her shoulder and heads back downstairs just as her father comes out of the garage with a very large duffel bag. “Where are we going?” he asks.

“Scott is working on that.” Allison doesn’t tell him about Peter and Crowley’s involvement. “He’ll call when he has something.”

“I’m driving,” Chris says, and he leads the way out of the house. Allison rolls her eyes as she follows. Her father is on the warpath now, and there’s no stopping him. What is he going to do when he finds out she’s lied to him several times in quick succession? She’s done so before. It never ended well. “Do Derek and Scott have a plan for when you find Stiles and the empusa?”

“Uh, no,” Allison answers, looking out the window. “Mostly rescue Stiles and not die.”

Chris rolls his eyes. “Of course you don’t have a plan. When do you ever have a plan?”

Hey, sometimes they have great plans. This is just not one of those times.

But Allison’s phone rings before she can come up with a properly saucy retort, Scott’s face popping up on the screen.

* * *

A heavy, tense silence hangs over the inside of Peter’s car as Peter drives, and Crowley and Scott sit awkwardly in the back. Peter wouldn’t let either of them sit in the front seat. Crowley won’t speak because he’s upset about this offense, and Scott doesn’t say anything because, well, he hates Peter, and Crowley is dating his mom. He’s honestly surprised that Peter isn’t nattering away, insulting everyone. Scott suspects it’s because Peter is afraid of Crowley.

Scott does eventually break the silence. “So do we have an actual destination in mind, or are we just driving around until inspiration hits us?”

“My house,” Crowley says, leaning forward to wrap one hand around the headrest of Peter’s seat. Peter flinches, but Crowley just tells him his address and a brief set of directions.

Why isn’t Scott surprised to find that Crowley lives in a straight-up mansion? The place has four floors, several acres of land surrounding it, and a driveway that takes them three minutes to drive up. Pillars march around the wide porch, green vines climbing up the red brick walls, and two ostentatious fountains dot the perfectly manicured lawn. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” Peter mutters as he leans forward to peer through the windshield at the humongous yet somehow still tasteful monstrosity in front of them.

“I enjoy the simpler things in life,” Crowley says, climbing out of the car.

“What the hell is this guy?” Peter asks Scott.

Scott shrugs. “I guess being the King of Hell has its perks.” He wonders if his mom knows about this place, if she’s been here yet.

Crowley is already on the porch, and he turns to motion for them to hurry up and follow him. Scott climbs out of the car, closely followed by Peter, and side by side, they start up towards the mansion. Peter takes a couple of quick steps to get ahead of Scott. Scott’s brow furrows. What a dick.

The foyer of Crowley’s mansion is even more breathtaking than the outside, all polished marble and brightly colored medieval paintings that are probably originals. A giant, sweeping staircase leads up to the next floor, and all the walls are lined with either bookshelves or racks of weird items and oddly shaped weapons. Stiles would have a field day in here.

“What if you have normal people over?” Scott asks, gesturing around at all the stuff.

Crowley gives him a vaguely disgusted look. “Why would I have normal people over to my house?”

Scott doesn’t know what other answer he was expecting.

Crowley leads Scott and Peter to a side door off to the left of the grand staircase, opening it up to reveal a smaller set of stone steps. “This way,” he says and clatters down them. A second door spills them out into a root cellar that’s half diabolical torture chamber and half mad-alchemist’s workshop.

Scott picks up a large orb with white clouds curling around inside, what looks like blood dripping off the top. “What the hell is this?” he asks.

“Put that down,” Crowley orders quickly, glancing over his shoulder. “That contains the soul of a very angry chaos demon. Touch it with your bare flesh for too long, and you’ll go mad.”

Scott drops the orb back to the table and wipes his fingers off on his shirt.

“Don’t break it either,” Crowley sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose.

Scott takes two quick steps to the left to put Peter between him and the table, pretending like nothing happened.

“I’m working with children,” he hears Crowley mutter under his breath. “This is even worse than dealing with the Winchesters.” He raises his voice. “Just sit on the stools over there and don’t touch anything.”

When Peter and Scott don’t move right away, the stools leap away from the wall on their own accord, knock Peter and Scott’s legs out from under them, and carry them back to the edge of the room, far away from any dangerous or breakable looking objects. “Fuck,” Peter hisses, digging his claws into the underside of the stool.

Scott grins. He really enjoys how uncomfortable Crowley makes Peter.

“You’ve been having trouble tracking the empusa for a couple of reasons,” Crowley begins. He stands at a heavy oak table with his back to them, his jacket hanging off a peg on the wall while he works. “The first is that you’re all, frankly, incompetent,” Scott rolls his eyes, “and the second is that she’s crafted a powerful glamor around herself that convolutes her scent trail and masks her from most normal magical means of tracking her.”

“Do you have anything constructive to say, or are you just going to continue to insult us?” Scott says.

“I think he’s only insulting you,” Peter says. “I just got here.”

Scott punches him.

“Children,” Crowley snaps, glaring over his shoulder at the two of them.

Peter points his finger at Scott. “He started it.”

“Excuse me?” Scott yelps. “You started it all those years ago when you _bit_ me!”

Suddenly, neither of them can speak. Scott opens his mouth, but no sound comes out. He and Peter glance at each other in shock, jaws hanging wide.

“That’s better,” Crowley says smugly. “Now, where was I? Ah yes, tracking the thing which you buffoons have failed to find for so long.”

What the hell does his mom _see_ in this guy?

“Luckily for you, I’m the King of Hell, and I can see past any glamor set by a little empusa.” A burst of fire erupts in front of Crowley’s face, but he doesn’t flinch, just takes a vial of oddly dark, viscous liquid and pours it on top of the flames. He gathers up the ceramic bowl and carries it over to where Scott and Peter are sitting. Inside is a pile of grey ash, and Crowley reaches in, takes a fistful, and tosses it unceremoniously and without warning into Scott’s face.

Scott coughs violently, blinded, dust in his eyes, his nose, his mouth, smelling burnt herbs and old ash. Beside him, he hears Peter spit and Crowley chuckle. “What the hell, man?” Scott tries to demand, but no sound comes out.

“This will allow you to see through any glamors the empusa throws at you as well as see the trails her magic has left,” Crowley explains.

Scott finally blinks the dust away from his eyes, though the world still looks blurry around him. “Some warning would have been nice,” he says silently.

“Oh, right,” Crowley says, and with a wave of his hand, Peter and Scott regain the ability to speak. The first thing Peter does is swear profusely. This lasts for at least two minutes. Scott and Crowley wait him out. “Are you done? Good. Now go be heroes and kill the beast or whatever.”

“You’re not coming?” Scott asks.

Crowley dusts his hands off and puts his jacket back on. “Not my fight.”

“I’ll tell you what my mom said to her friend about you last night.”

Crowley stares at him with narrowed eyes. “You play dirty, don’t you?” Scott grins up at him innocently. Crowley lets out a longsuffering groan. “Fine. I’ll come. You’re a devious little puppy.”

“I’m not…I’m not a puppy,” Scott sighs, but Crowley isn’t listening. He turns instead to one of the racks on the wall, taking down an odd silver dagger without a crossguard. It makes Scott’s teeth ache just looking at it. Peter snickers at him smugly. “Shut up, Bunny Rabbit.”

The snicker chokes to a stop in Peter’s throat.

The silver blade disappears up Crowley’s sleeve without a trace. “What is that?” Scott asks as he hops down from his stool.

“An angel blade,” Crowley answers. “I took it off one of the feathered pricks a few years ago.”

The three of them leave the workshop and then the mansion itself, hopping down the steps to Peter’s car. Crowley tries to climb into the shotgun seat, but Peter locks the doors and stares at him until he moves to the back with a roll of his eyes. Then Peter turns the car around, and they take off down the long driveway. “Do you two see anything?” Crowley asks.

“What the hell are we even looking for? And why can’t you see it?” Peter mumbles as Scott peers out the window, squinting his eyes to search for…something.

“I can see through her glamors but not the traces of them, and I didn’t want to get dust on my suit. The type of magic she uses leaves a trail,” Crowley explains as if talking to a toddler. “You should be able to see some kind of–”

“I see it,” Scott interrupts, not realizing until after he does so that maybe it’s not the best idea to interrupt the King of Hell. He sees a kind of purple glow in the distance towards the center of town, tentacles of the same light arcing out of it to spread across town.

“I’ll be damned,” Peter says, leaning forward to get a better look. “Your fairy dust actually worked.”

Crowley kicks the back of his seat.

They drive back into town, headed towards the purple glow, and as they get closer, Scott picks up his phone and starts a conference call with Derek, Boyd, and Allison. “Hey,” he says when they pick up. “I think we know where she is.”


	17. Nightmare on Elm Street

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you all had a good holiday season and that those of you who had exams/have exams coming up do well. Oh my God, sorry, mini-rant time, but Britain is so weird and universities here have their exams after winter break, like why? You know I'm just going to spend those weeks procrastinating and then have to scramble to write all my essays. It's the worst. This week I've finished a 5,000 word short story (it was supposed to be 3,000), a 4,000 word essay on Thomas Hardy and the Women Who Did, and I still have a 3,000 word essay due on January 18th. Ugh. Okay, sorry, rant over. Please enjoy this chapter.

 

Sam taps his toes against the cold basement floor, pursing his lips as he looks around the empty space. The worst part of being a captive is the _boredom_. All you can do is sit around and wait while you’re tied up, and Sam has been captured so many times that the fear, suspense, and knowledge that he might be tortured just don’t get to him anymore.

“Elena!” he yells. He gets no answer. “Elena!” he bellows more loudly.

The door to the upstairs slams open, and Elena stomps down, eyes flashing red. “What the hell do you want?”

“I’m bored. Also hungry. And I have to pee.”

All of these things are true, but Elena doesn’t seem to care. She turns to go. “Wait,” Sam calls. “I do have an actual question.” He’s pleased to see that she hesitates. “Why?”

Elena turns around on the stairs to look down at him. “Why what?”

“Why all of this?” If Sam could gesture around, he would. “The murders. The attacks. What’s the reason behind them? Please, I genuinely want to understand.” He adds this last bit and a smidge of a smile because Elena looks like she wants to stalk off. Rule number one: get your captor talking.

She eyes him for a moment then clatters down to drape herself across her chair again. “Because human life force gives me power. Strength. Beauty. Youth.” She grins, revealing long, pointed fangs. “Without it, I would be just another fleshbag. Weak and puny. Where is the fun in that?”

Sam’s stomach sinks. That was just the answer he’d feared. Some monsters kill because they must feed to stay alive, but they don’t always like it. Others kill because there’s a dark, animalistic urge that’s not their own within them, driving them to violence, but with the right motivation or support system, they can learn to control it. Elena seems to kill because she _likes_ it, not because she has to.

“You don’t care about the human lives that are lost?” he asks, hoping he can dig up something that will let him save her.

Elena snorts deep within her throat. “I am several thousand years old. What do I care for a few tiny human lives?”

Ah, an immortal. Those are always fun. Nigh-on impossible to reason with. Set in their ways. They believe they’re entitled to what they have and entitled to more of it. There would be no saving Elena.

“I’m sorry to hear you say that,” Sam says.

“Oh? And why’s that?”

“Because now I’m going to have to kill you.”

Elena throws back her head and laughs. “That’s cute, little human. I’d like to see you try. Maybe this time, I’ll go after one of your werewolf friends. Imagine what kind of power I could gain from draining the lifeblood of an Alpha.”

And then she leaves him there, flicking the light switch off before she shuts the door and plunging him into darkness.

* * *

Scott stands with Crowley, Peter, and the rest of his Pack on the opposite side of the street from the empusa’s lair. With the power of Crowley’s magic, , Scott can see the truth of Elena’s house. It’s a ramshackle building with peeling, white paint and broken windows, the lawn out front overgrown and uncared for. The roof sags, the gutters are bent and rusted, and dirt grimes every surface. Scott can see the overlay of a neat and ordered house on top of this dilapidated building.

“We don’t know what we’re going to find in there,” he says. “So I guess we’ll just have to be ready for anything. Don’t trust anything your eyes see. Listen to what Peter, Crowley, and I say since we can see through the glamors.” God, he hopes Peter doesn’t choose this moment to screw them over again. “And remember, our top priority is getting Sam out, not killing Elena.” Scott still believes she can be saved. Anyone can be saved. “Anything to add, Derek?”

Derek twirls that olive branch stake of his. “This empusa is as dangerous or maybe more dangerous that anything we’ve faced before. Watch each other’s backs and don’t do anything stupid.”

“Yeah, because that’s his job,” Stiles whispers to Cora, though he makes sure everyone else can hear. She snorts, Derek favoring them all with glares.

“Should we wait for Allison and Mr. Argent?” Isaac asks.

“They can support us from outside,” Derek says while Stiles pulls out his phone to relay the message to Allison. “Stiles, Lydia, do you want to keep watch outside as well?”

Stiles snorts derisively and swings his aluminum baseball bat so that it whistles through the air while Lydia says, “Bitch please,” and plants her hands on her hips.

“Alright then,” Derek agrees. “Let’s do this.”

As one unit, they cross the street, and Scott takes a deep breath as he steps onto the green grass that is actually brown and dry. Elena probably already knows that they’re here. Doesn’t seem like it’s possible to get the drop on that girl. He and Derek lead the way up the front steps, and Scott reaches out a hand to grasp the knob. The door swings open at his touch.

“It’s locked,” Derek says.

Scott gives him a look, but then he sees the translucent overlay of a closed door before the empty hall. Scott steps inside rather than explain what he’s seeing, and behind him, Erica curses with surprise. When he turns around, the image of the closed door is gone completely. “Come on,” he says and heads deeper inside.

He expects to step into a barren, dust-choked room, but instead, he finds himself in a library. The shelves are made of all different kinds of wood – some are even plastic or metal – and they’re stuffed with leather bound tomes, all of them bearing titles down the spine in languages Scott can’t read. The lines and shapes the shelves make correspond with the placement of the glamored furniture.

“What now?” Cora asks.

Eric and Boyd disappear. A shadow flashes across the room, seizes them, and then a door off to the left slams shut, all too fast for Scott to see properly. “Shit,” Derek hisses, spinning around with his stake raised, but the space where Erica and Boyd should be is empty, and the air is full of the scent of burnt cinnamon and metal.

“I see you’ve found me. Didn’t take as long as I expected.”

Scott turns in the direction of the voice just in time to see Elena leap down from a bookshelf and flash past him. Cora yells with surprise as she flies through the air and another door slams shut. Elena comes to rest with her elbow on Peter’s shoulder. Scott can see her true form beneath the glamor – the brass leg and the goat one, teeth pointed, eyes glowing within her angular face. “This one’s new. I haven’t met him yet.”

“Where’s Sam?” Stiles growls, swinging his baseball bat threateningly as he takes a step towards her.

Elena casually tosses Peter into Stiles, and they both go down in a tangle of limbs. “Sam? Who cares about him? He’s boring.”

Scott doesn’t know how a person can look so incredibly unconcerned while surrounded by a bristling pack of angry werewolves and the King of Hell – wait, no, Crowley is off examining one of the bookshelves and is paying absolutely no attention to what’s going on. Helpful.

Stiles and Peter disentangle themselves, Peter insulting Stiles, Stiles’ mother, and Stiles’ dog (even though he knows Stiles doesn’t have a dog) the entire way while Stiles snipes right back and purposefully smacks Peter on the head with his baseball bat a couple of times.

“I don’t understand how this Pack has survived this long without getting torn apart,” Elena says as she watches this spectacle.

“I wonder the same thing every day,” Derek mutters.

Whacking Peter one last time, Stiles pops upright, pointing the head of his bat at Elena. “We’re just here for Sam. Tell us where he is, and we’ll let you go.”

Of course, Elena laughs at that, still standing among them. “Let’s play a game, shall we? You find him, you keep him.”

And then everything goes dark, even to Scott’s glamor-proofed eyes, as Elena chucks something at the light overhead. A series of yelps sound in the room, and the glowing eyes of his Pack which surround him disappear one by one. Scott flicks his claws out and tenses, but his werewolf senses can’t see through this darkness. There’s something _heavy_ about it.

An arm – slim yet hard – seizes him around the waist and drags him back, and Scott, bellowing, lashes out with his claws. He connects, feels blood dribble across his hand, and hears a hiss of pain, but the arm’s grip doesn’t slacken. He’s tossed away suddenly, tumbling head over heels through the air, and he hears a door slam shut as he crashes to the ground.

* * *

For Cora, the room is on fire. The grand staircase burns, slowly crumbling, and the arch into the kitchen glows as smoke billows up to the ceiling. She hears people screaming all around her, but she can’t see anyone other than herself. “Derek?” she yells. “Mom? Laura?”

“Cora!” her mom screams. “Cora, get out of here!”

“Where are you? Mom!”

The only response she gets is more shrieking. The stench of burning flesh coats the inside of her nose. She gags, can’t hold it back, and vomits in the corner. Derek screams her name. She can’t tell if he’s begging her for help or yelling for her to run. She drops to her knees beside one of the vents leading down into the basement and pries it open, but the metal burns her fingers. She thinks she sees hands scrabbling for help on the other side.

“Derek!” she yells.

She…she wasn’t here for the fire. She wasn’t even in the country. This is the empusa. One of her glamors that Scott was telling them about. But even though she realizes this, the flames and the screaming don’t go away, but she’s able to stand up and ignore them, and as she does, she sees a blonde girl kneeling on the ground.

Relief floods through Cora as she hurries up to the girl. “Erica.”

* * *

Erica opens her eyes to darkness. She blinks a couple of times to make sure it’s not some kind of trick, but the space around her remains black as pitch. She sits with her back pressed against a wall and her hands braced on the wooden floor, a breeze whispering across her cheekbones and nose. She smells blood, and she smells fear, though she can’t tell if it’s her own or someone else’s.

Slowly, she stands, using her hands to leverage herself up and the firm wall as support as she strains her ears to listen and her nose to smell, but after that initial burst of sensory input, she can’t pick anything up. It’s like she’s human again. Erica shrinks down inside of herself, arms curling around her stomach. She can’t be human again, can’t go back to having seizures and anxiety so bad that she can’t stick her head out her bedroom door, can’t go back to being weak and needing to be saved by people like Scott McCall.

She tastes blood in the back of her mouth. Her hands tremble. She can feel her jaw locking up. No. Not this again. Not this.

A light clicks on in the black room about ten yards from her. Dim and grey, it still seems bright enough to blind her after the total and absolute darkness. Erica squints, lifting a hand to shield her eyes, and sees Boyd’s shadowy figure staggering towards her, one arm wrapped around his midsection. He looks up at her, and the light glints off the white of his eyes. “Erica?” His voice is weak.

Erica can still taste blood, but she forces her legs to unlock, and in a stumbling gait, she runs towards him. Boyd collapses just as she reaches him, and she drops to her knees, gathering his head in her lap. Blood slicks her hands, pouring from the three-inch long stab wound in his abdomen. “Wh-what happened?” she stutters.

Boyd groans in pain. “Elena came out of nowhere. She stabbed me with this weird dagger.”

Black lines crawl crookedly away from the wound beneath his skin, thick and bulbous. “You’re – you’re going to be fine. It doesn’t look too bad.” She can’t do the thing that Isaac, Scott, and Derek can do where they take away a person’s pain – she’s tried, but she’s never been able to figure it out – but she holds Boyd’s hand anyways, his fingers clenched tightly in hers.

“You’re going to be fine,” she says again, this time to convince herself, because Boyd doesn’t look fine. Blood bubbles out from between his lips. He’s sweating. His eyes roll wildly, fearfully.

A hand grabs Erica’s shoulder, fear giving the fingers an iron grip, and Erica jumps, her head snapping around. Cora stands above her, fly away hairs framing her face, her eyes taunt and full of fright. Her hand, where it touches Erica, trembles. “Erica, thank God,” Cora gasps. She’s breathing heavily. “We have to go.”

“Boyd is hurt.” Erica looks back down at Boyd. His breathing grows shallower.

“That’s not Boyd, Erica. He’s an illusion. Elena is using a glamor to prey on your fears.”

Erica shakes her head and tries to get her arms around his shoulders so she can help him up. “He’s real, and he’s hurt. Help me get him up. We have to get him outside.”

But Cora pulls her away. The other werewolf is stronger, and Erica still feels like a human, so she can’t stop Cora. “He’s a trap. Elena is probably lying in wait until you’ve let your guard down so she can kill you without a fight.”

“Then how do I know you’re not an illusion?” Erica yells, yanking herself free of Cora’s grasp. She wants to drop back to her knees beside Boyd, but something in Cora’s words keeps her standing. She has to protect both of them. “How do I know you’re real? Maybe you’re part of the glamor. Maybe you want to lure me away from Boyd so he’ll die, and then Elena can kill me.”

Cora’s brow tightens, and her jaw clenches – an expression Erica knows well, but if Cora is a glamor pulled from her mind, then it makes sense that the fake Cora would have these ticks. Right? “What do you see?” Cora asks, gesturing around her.

Erica glances around. “Darkness,” she says.

“I see fire,” Cora says. Her voice is brittle. “I see a house burning, and I hear people screaming. But I can’t find them. I can’t save them.”

Erica stares at Cora, thinking hard, and then looks back down at Boyd whose throat clicks, struggling to breathe. Cora seems so real. But so does Boyd. Can they both be real? Both fake? She tries to think it through. Obviously, she’s afraid of Boyd dying, so it makes sense that he’s lying beside her, bleeding, but why is Cora here? Maybe Boyd _is_ real, and the empusa is trying to lure her away. Erica doesn’t know what to do.

Cora holds out her hand and stares Erica in the eyes. “Erica, trust me.”

Erica looks down at Boyd again. She wants to believe Cora, to believe that the Boyd below her is an illusion, and the real one is out there, perfectly fine, because the idea of losing Boyd is unfathomable. She studies his features. Is his nose a little too wide? His eyes a little too far apart and slightly the wrong color? And the more she looks, the more she sees the imperfections of the illusion.

It’s not Boyd. Her Boyd is still alive somewhere. So she takes Cora’s hand, and she lets the other werewolf tug her away at a run.

* * *

Derek is alone in the forest, his feet trapped by cloying mud, sunk into it down to his knees. Around him are dead bodies. The nearest one to him is Stiles. His throat is ripped out, there’s a vicious bite mark on his arm, and his entrails pour out of his stomach. His glassy eyes stare at Derek.

Cora is just behind Stiles. Half of her face is missing, and the arm on the same side has been ripped off.

Allison, Isaac, and Scott lie jumbled together, though they’re so dismembered that it’s nearly impossible to tell which limb belongs to which body. Both of Scott’s eyes are missing. They look like they’ve been pecked out.

Erica sits slumped against a tree trunk with her heart in her hands and blood trickling out her mouth. Boyd lies beside her, head touching her thigh, three arrows in his chest.

Lydia hangs by her neck from the next tree, slowly spinning as her hands and feet swell and turn purple, her pallid, white face framed by her bloody, red hair.

Derek jerks his legs, struggling to free his feet so he can run to his Pack, but he just ends up sinking himself deeper into the cold mud which oozes over the tops of his boots and down into his socks. “No, no.” He stretches out his hands as if he can reach Stiles from all the way over here.

The wind catches at his clothes, and he shivers, still fighting the mud. There are no stars in the sky overhead. He has to get to Stiles. Maybe if he can put those entrails back inside Stiles, maybe he’ll breathe again, come back to Derek. He wolfs out, roaring at the sky as heat floods through him, hair and claws erupting. The blood in the air is enough to send him reeling, and only his trapped feet keep him upright.

There is nothing he can do to bring them back.

* * *

Outside, Allison and her father roll up to the address Scott gave them in Chris’s red SUV. “What the hell?” Chris says, leaning forward to look out the windshield. “I thought this was her house.”

Allison’s brow furrows. “That’s what Scott said.”

There’s certainly not a house here now. Instead, a massive crater takes up most of the scorched yard, its edges jagged and blackened. A few pieces of wood and warped metal litter the dead ground.

Allison hops out of the car, gripping her bow tight. “I don’t understand. There should be a house here.”

She starts to stride towards the lot and its strange crater, but Chris’s hand falls on her shoulder. “We should wait here until we know more.”

“My friends are in there! They’re in danger!” Allison shakes his hand off.

“You’ll do them no good if you rush in there and break your leg.”

Ever the voice of reason. Sometimes, he really annoys the shit out of Allison. Especially when she can actually see the sense of his advice. So she knocks an arrow to her bow, leans up against the hood of the SUV, and settles in to wait.

* * *

Nothing changes for Crowley when the lights go out, and when they come back on, he’s standing in the same library, all by himself. He looks around, lips slightly pursed. He should probably go try and find…oh, is that a Globe of Infinity?

Completely sidetracked, Crowley walks over to the side table in the corner of the room where a fist-sized blue orb sits on a simple, metal pedestal. He doesn’t pick it up right away. Globes of Infinity are rare, possibly the rarest of the non-divine objects. There’s maybe only one or two in all of existence. They’re what phony fortunetellers based their crystal orbs off of, capable of showing the one who gazes into its depths anything and everything.

Crowley grins; the power this thing could give him. But he knows that to look into the Globe of Infinity without proper preparation or training is to go mad. So he pulls a handkerchief from his pocket to wrap it in before he picks it up and puts it in his pocket.

He wonders what other goodies there are in this place. he’s sure these goody-two-shoes werewolves can handle themselves.

* * *

Isaac sits at the kitchen table across from his father, the remains of a chicken dinner spread out between them, cheery, early evening sunlight spilling through the window. But Isaac doesn’t feel the light’s warmth or comfort. All he can feel is the weight of his father’s heavy stare. His heavy, angry stare.

His father is furious.

Because his father has just found out about Isaac’s relationship with Allison and Isaac.

Now, Isaac waits for the bomb to go off. Because it will go off. The only question is how? A glass thrown at his head? A slap to the face? A push down the stairs and a slam of the freezer chest lid?

“So you’re gay now?” His father’s voice is calm, but it always starts out that way.

Isaac hesitates. If he speaks, whatever he says will be the exact wrong thing, and if he stays silent, well, that’s the wrong answer, too. Isaac hesitates just a moment too long, and his father’s expression darkens. “Answer me when I ask you a question, boy.”

“I’m actually bisexual,” Isaac says in a voice barely above a whisper.

His father snorts. “Those don’t exist.”

Isaac can’t contradict them man without raising his anger even higher than it already is.

“And dating two people at once? What the hell is that?”

“It’s called polyamory,” Isaac says, his eyes slanted down towards the floor. “Lots of cultures practice it.”

There’s that snort again, his father rolling his knife over and over again in his fingers in a way that makes Isaac’s stomach churn. “It’s wrong, is what it is. Why can’t you just date the girl like a normal man?”

“I love them both.” The words almost don’t come out, but Isaac forces them to.

Isaac’s father slams his hand down on the table as he bolts upright, and Isaac flinches back. “You will break up with that boy! I will not have you dragging my name through the mud with your…with your sodomy.”

Isaac gulps, but he stands. He’s just as tall as his father yet he feels so much smaller. “No,” he says. “I love Scott. And I love Allison.”

His father’s arm blurs as he snatches up his glass and flings it at Isaac’s head. Isaac ducks and stumbles back, and the glass shatters against the wall. His father rounds the table before Isaac can recover and seizes him by the front of his shirt, lifting him up to his tiptoes.

“Did you just say no to me?” he spits in Isaac’s face. “What have I told you about saying no to me?”

“You said not to,” Isaac murmurs.

“You know what happens next, don’t you?” His father’s voice goes dangerously low.

And unfortunately, yes, Isaac does know what happens next, and he doesn’t have to answer because his father is already heading for the stairs that lead down to the basement, dragging him along. Isaac’s stomach clenches, and his mouth goes dry as his hands begin to sweat. His father opens the door, and then he flings Isaac down the stairs.

Isaac hits the first step on his back and the next on his head, and then he’s falling too fast to figure out where each hit comes from, rolling with his limbs all tangled up, knocking the bony points of his elbows and knees, hitting his head again. He almost doesn’t realize it when he reaches the bottom of the staircase because the world continues to spin around him. Everything is a haze of pain.

Dimly, he hears his father clatter down the stairs, but he’s too dazed to stand or do anything about it. So his father seizes him by the back of his shirt, and hauls him upright, and Isaac sees the dark maw of the waiting freezer chest. He begins to struggle, to beg, but as always, his father doesn’t listen. He never does.

He dumps Isaac in the freezer and stares down at him. “You’ll stay in here until you agree to do as I say and dump that boy.”

And then he slams the heavy door shut and locks it up.

Isaac starts to scream. He bangs his fists against the walls, the ceiling. He claws for freedom, feels blood trickle down his fingers as the unseen walls close in and the darkness begins to consume him.

* * *

Lydia stares at another version of herself. In a dim part of her mind, she knows that this doesn’t make sense, but at the same time, she can’t take her eyes off the vision.

The other Lydia wears a hospital gown that was once white but is now mostly grey with grime and splattered with blood. Her hair hangs in matted clumps around her head which is tilted forward and to the side. Her arms hang stiffly at her sides, and she floats so that her pointed toes are an inch or two above the ground. But the worst part is her eyes. They’re completely black. They stare through Lydia yet see every part of her at the same time.

This is what Lydia has always feared she’ll become. A monster consumed by her power, taken over by it.

As if feeding off her thoughts, the apparition speaks. “This is what you could be.” Her voice is flat, cold. “This is the power you could have. You could be a goddess. You could rule this puny planet, stretch your reach out beyond its borders to all the realms and all the worlds.”

“No, I don’t want that,” Lydia says, though it doesn’t sound as convincing as she would like it to.

“Oh, but you do. You want the power. You’ve seen how strong your werewolf friends are. And you’re jealous. Don’t try to deny it. I am you after all. You want to be as strong as the Alphas. They see you as weak. As in need of protection.”

“That’s not true!” Lydia interrupts.

“You can’t lie to yourself. How many times have they had to save you?”

“Fuck off,” Lydia says, angry. And then she screams.

The glamor screams back, and when the two waves collide, they shatter the world.

* * *

Peter blinks a couple of times as he sits up in what was once the master bedroom, spitting dust from his mouth. Shit like this always happens to him when he hangs out with Derek and his ilk. He really needs to stop doing this. It’s not good for his health.

He stands up. He’s getting the hell out of Dodge. Fuck Scott and his self-righteous mission. Fuck being a hero. Peter is going to go get a coffee. Maybe an ice cream. He deserves a fucking ice cream.

His plan is to leave this house of horrors as quickly as he can, but of course, that idea is instantly foiled. He only gets through two doors before he sees two figures, Erica and Cora, staggering down the hallway, their arms wrapped around each other.

“Ah shit,” Peter groans.

Unfortunately, Cora is his own flesh and blood.

Peter runs up to the two of them and claps his hand down on Cora’s shoulder. She jumps at the contact. “Come with me.” For once, he doesn’t add his customary insult. The two girls look shaken up enough, and – is that blood on Erica’s hands? Peter doesn’t ask about it. That might send him off on a side quest that he doesn’t want to do.

“Peter? Are you real?” Cora asks, voice shaking.

“Unfortunately,” Peter says. “Come on, I’ll get you out of here.”

Relief floods both of their faces, and they fall in line behind Peter, clustered close to his back. “I see the fire,” Cora whispers. “Peter, I’m sorry. I should have been there.”

“Then you would be dead, too,” Peter replies gruffly.

He leads them through the house, sharp eyes on the lookout for Elena or any other threat that might pop out of the shadows. They pass no one else from the Pack though they travel through many rooms. Somehow, the house is much bigger than it appears on the outside.

The group arrives at the front door without incident, and Peter opens it, motioning for Erica and Cora to go first. They scurry out like the devil is at their heels. Peter closes the door behind them and follows them up the sidewalk. A red SUV sits across the street, both Allison and her insufferable hunter father waiting by the hood.

Allison perks up when she sees them, rushing to meet them. “Oh my God, Erica, Cora! Are you okay? You just climbed out of a crater! What happened?”

A crater? Peter turns around, and sure enough, there’s the image of a bombed out hole on top of the dilapidated house. “It’s a glamor. The house is still there.”

“Are the others inside?” Allison asks.

Erica nods tiredly. “Elena, she’s messing with our minds. Trapping us inside our own nightmares.”

Allison preps to charge up the sidewalk into the house. “We have to go help them!”

Peter catches her and holds her back, certain she’s going to take his hand off with one of her nasty daggers. “You’ll just get stuck inside the glamor as well, and then would good would you be?”

But before Allison can answer, a scream – a banshee scream – shatters the air, and all of them fall to the ground, hands clamped over their ears. When it finally fades and Peter is able to stand and turn around, he sees that all traces of the glamor are gone, leaving the run-down building behind.

* * *

Stiles comes to in the living room of his father’s house. He lies on the leather couch, sprawled out like he’s just woken up from a nap. It’s funny, though. He doesn’t remember lying down to sleep or even coming back to his childhood home. He frowns, scratching at the back of his head as he sits up, trying to figure it out. His brain is too sleep-deprived to finish the job.

“Hello, Stiles.”

Daggers slide down Stiles’ spine. He knows that voice. That voice of cracked ice and buzzing insects and dark mischief.

Stiles lifts his head. The Nogitsune-version of himself sprawls languidly in Sheriff Stilinski’s armchair, smirking. Looking at him makes Stiles shiver. He’s pale as a ghost, black bags under his hollow eyes, his dark hair sticking up chaotically. His clothes hang off his thin frame, and his fingernails, where they dangle off the armrest, are starting to blacken.

“You’re – you – we banished you,” Stiles says, fear making his throat dry.

“You’re a part of me, Stiles,” the Nogitsune says with a smile that churns Stiles’ stomach. “I can never truly be gone.”

“You stole my body.” Stiles doesn’t speak of that day, doesn’t even think of it. The day the Japanese trickster demon stole his body without him knowing it. The day it left him feeling wrong in a skin that’s not his own. He took those feelings, and he locked them away in a box, and he doesn’t let them out. Ever.

But now, seeing the Nogitsune, the key is turned without him touching it, and all that wrongness comes sliding out. His skin itches, and he wants to claw it off, and his bones feel hot, like they’re swelling, and all his nerves scream.

“You remember all the fun times we had?” the Nogitsune says, and no, Stiles doesn’t; he’s locked those away, too, though as soon as the demon speaks, all those memories come free. All the people he hurt. All the horror he caused.

“You’re not me,” Stiles says. He fights to think through the fog and the rush of memories. “We got rid of you.”

But that’s the thing, isn’t it? Stiles has always feared that some part of the Nogitsune remained inside him after they banished it. It’s part of the reason he’s worked so hard to repress those memories. He’s afraid he’ll find some trace of the Nogitsune left over in him.

Turns out he was right to have that fear.

Stiles glances away from the Nogitsune. He can’t bear to look at it any longer. And that’s when he sees something odd. There’s a picture of him and his father on the mantle, positioned just like it always is. Stiles has walked past it ten thousand times, but this time, it’s different. Stiles is wearing the wrong color shirt – red rather than plaid.

When he looks back down at himself, he’s holding onto his baseball bat.

A grin touches his face, and he stands up. “Maybe you are a part of me somewhere, but this version of you, sitting before me,” Stiles gestures at the Nogitsune, “isn’t real. You’re a glamor created by a creature out of Greek mythology.”

And then Stiles swings the bat as hard as he can and smashes the Nogitsune’s head in with a spray of blood.

In the space of a blink, Stiles’ childhood living room disappears and is replaced by a dusty kitchen. Stiles’ knees go a bit wobbly, and he leans up against a counter, heart pounding, palms sweating. He scratches at his skin because it’s the wrong damn skin, and maybe if he can peel it off, he can uncover his true body. He forces himself to stop, wrapping both hands around the baseball bat.

Time to get moving. That’s the best way to get the box locked up tight again like it’s supposed to be.

Stiles leaves the kitchen, holding the bat up and at the ready. The layer of dust on the wooden floor keeps his footsteps silent as he creeps along. He strains his ears, hoping to hear to something of the Pack, but the house is silent as a grave. Stiles shivers, the draft running all the way down his spine.

Stiles steps into a room that looks like a child’s bedroom, and he hears the second door into the room squeak. Panicking, he hides himself behind the heavy curtains. An instant after he’s sequestered himself, the door opens fully, and footsteps enter the room, the floorboards creaking.

Stiles takes a deep breath, slips out from behind the curtains, and swings his bat at the intruder’s head. Scott McCall lets out a very high pitched shriek and stumbles back, and Stiles screams, too, both of them flailing around, brandishing claws and weapons, until they finally work out that they aren’t in any danger.

“Jesus, fuck!” Stiles yells. “Scott, you almost gave me a damn heart attack!”

“You? What about my poor heart?” Scott shouts, then his brow furrows. “Wait, you can see me?”

“I escaped my glamor,” Stiles explains.

“What did you see?” Scott asks, curious.

Stiles heads towards the door. “We need to hurry and find Sam. Come on.”

Scott lets the matter drop and follows Stiles out of the room. “Do you have any idea where to look?” Scott asks, sniffing the air. “I can’t smell anything. The scents are too muddled up.”

“When we get captured, where do the bad guys always keep us?” Stiles asks, but Scott shakes his head. So Stiles turns to grin at him. “In the basement.”

Scott grins back at him, clapping him on the shoulder. “Brilliant!”

The two of them hurry through the seemingly never-ending warren of hallways, checking every door until they finally find one hiding a set of stairs leading downwards. Scott and Stiles share a look and exchange nods. Stiles lets Scott go first since Scott is the big, bad, invincible werewolf with the claws and teeth.

The stairs take them down into a cellar where Sam sits in a chair in the center of the floor, looking a little bloody and bruised. He jerks his head up in a nod and grins at them. “Hey, guys. How’s it going?”

“Oh my God, are you okay?” Scott rushes across the floor and drops to his knees to undo the knots binding Sam to the chair.

Stiles notices Elena standing in the shadows, watching them. He moves just slightly so that he’s standing between her and the others, though he’s not sure what he’ll be able to do if Elena decides to attack. “You said if we found Sam, we’d get to keep him. Well, we’ve found him.”

“And I lied,” Elena says with a grin.

She leaps towards him, and Stiles swings his bat, but she ducks under it, knocking his legs out from under him. Stiles hits the ground with a heavy thud. Scott manages to free Sam and turns to face Elena as Sam dives for his gun which lies in a pile along with his boots and coat. Scott bellows, lashing out, and while he has her distracted, Sam fires three shots at Elena’s back.

She shrieks and arches her spine. Stiles scrambles upright, smashing his baseball bat into her knee. The leg collapses under her, but it only lasts a second before she recovers from both that and the gunshot wounds.

“We need the others!” Scott yells. “We can’t take her on by ourselves. Get upstairs!”

The three of them charge for the staircase, and Stiles bounds up them three at a time. They break out into the hallway with Elena close on their heels. Stiles feels her clawed hand reaching for his collar.

Lydia screams, and the sound of it rocks the entire building, knocking all of them off their feet. Stiles rolls as he hits the ground and smacks into the wall. A second later, Sam’s hand grabs him and hauls him upright, and they set off running with Scott. Stiles glances over his shoulder to see Elena writhing on the ground.

They flee the house, running through rooms at random. They find Isaac first, lying on the ground, screaming and writhing, clawing at the air. Scott yells his name and falls down beside him, shaking him by the shirt.

“Slap him!” Stiles says, and Scott does so, rearing back and smacking Isaac across the face so hard that Sam and Stiles flinch.

Isaac gasps and jerks upright, eyes flaring yellow, and Scott gathers his shaking body into a big hug. “No time!” Sam reminds them, moving towards the next door. “She’ll be right behind us.”

Scott helps Isaac upright, and they hurry on, coming across Derek in the next room, standing in the center of the floor, jerking his legs up and down without moving them from that spot. He’s fully wolfed out. Stiles claims the pleasure of smacking him across the face, jumping out of the way before Derek can take his head off.

“Welcome back, Sleeping Beauty,” Stiles says after Derek has blinked enough times to recognize him.

“Oh my God, you’re not dead.” Derek bounds across the space between them, wrapping Stiles up in a giant hug, burying his face in Stiles’ hair.

“Uh, yes, I’m not dead,” Stiles says, brow furrowed.

“Angry empusa. Impending doom,” Sam says, clapping Stiles on the shoulder.

Right on cue, Elena bursts into the room, snarling. “Oh shit,” Stiles agrees, and then they’re running again.

Derek keeps his body between Stiles and Elena as they flee through the house, bouncing off of walls and slamming through the doors. Stiles knows that Elena is going to catch up to them – how could she not when the group is being held up by slow-poke human Stiles?

Lydia crashes through the door on the side of the hall up ahead of them, sees the situation coming towards her, and turns tail with wide eyes. Sam grabs her hand when he catches up to help pull her along.

“Have you seen any of the others?” Scott asks her, glancing around.

Lydia shakes her head as Sam points the gun over his shoulder and pulls the trigger a couple of times. Elena shrieks, and when Stiles looks back, Elena has staggered back a few steps.

Derek takes the lead, dragging Stiles behind him, apparently deciding that they don’t have time to look for anyone else right now. The next door they come to is the door to the outside, and Derek smashes into it with his shoulder. They burst out into the sunlight.

Across the street, Cora, Erica, and Peter wait with Allison and her dad, and the group races to join them. “You guys are okay!” Allison gasps, embracing Scott and Isaac.

“Where’s Boyd?” Erica asks.

“He’s not with you?” Derek says.

Chris Argent points a gun at Sam’s head. “You said he wouldn’t be here!”

“Dad! Jesus Christ!” Allison shoves the gun away from Sam’s surprised face. “Not right now!”

“And Crowley?” Stiles asks.

“Crowley is fine, I’m sure,” Sam says distractedly, still staring at Chris. “What the hell did I do to you?”

Derek claps his hands to get everyone’s attention. “Now is not the time, people. Elena is going to come through that door at any second. We need a plan.” He pulls his stake from his belt.

“I talked to her,” Sam says. Stiles notices that he has yet to let go of Lydia’s hand. “There’s no saving her. She’s immortal and set in her ways.”

“Of course you would say that,” Chris snorts. “All you do is kill.”

“Who the hell _are you_?” Sam snaps.

“Children!” Derek interrupts.

Both of them clamp their mouths shut.

“Where’s Boyd?” Erica asks more loudly. She looks down and finally sees the blood on her hands. “Oh my God.”

Elena erupts from the house before anyone can do something to calm Erica down, but as soon as she sees their giant party, she glares at them and then takes off towards the forest.

“Shit, she’s going to get away!” Sam yells, racing after her.

“Don’t just…don’t just charge off,” Derek sighs, but he’s too late. “We need a plan.”

“Typical Winchester,” Chris mutters.

“We have to go after him!” Stiles drops Derek’s hand and runs off, somehow magnetically dragging Scott, Allison, Isaac, and Lydia after him before Derek can stop them.

“No. No, no, no,” Derek sighs.

Peter claps him on the shoulder. “I’m going to bow out and go get some ice cream, I think. I’m getting too old for this shit.”

“No, man, come on,” Derek says, but Peter is already jogging away. What a dick.

“I’m going to help Erica find Boyd, okay?” Cora says. “We’ll meet you back at the house.”

Derek nods, and she leads Erica back towards the house. Derek turns to Chris. “Are you going anywhere?”

Chris lifts his gun up and cocks it. “Let’s go hunt an empusa.”

Elena takes them on a merry chase through the forest. Maybe it’s the number of times Sam has shot her, or Stiles’ baseball bat to the knee, or Lydia’s scream, but the Pack is able to keep up with her, even gain a little ground. The werewolves in the chase bay and howl, and Stiles bellows along with them even as he slips to the back of the group with Allison and Lydia. Goddamn, he wishes he were as fast as the werewolves.

On the run, Allison knocks an arrow, draws, and fires over the head of the others. Stiles watches, amazed, as it strikes Elena in the shoulder. She stumbles, blood pouring from the wound, and now, Derek and Chris have joined the chase as well.

They don’t run through the forest for long before they break out into a clearing, and Elena turns on her heel to go on the offensive. There are also fifty of her, all identical.

Everyone except for Scott skids to a halt, cursing in surprise at the sudden turn of events. One of the Elenas seizes the charging Scott, flinging him away. Sam, Chris, and Allison all fire at different Elenas, and the girls crumple bloodlessly only to be replaced by five others. And then everything erupts into chaos, and Stiles can no long keep track of anyone but himself.

The Elenas rush them all, separating them, and Stiles lays about him with his baseball bat, even connecting with a few fleshy bones. He has to remind himself that all but one of these Elenas are fakes, but damn, the glamor is so powerful that he almost believes it makes sense for there to be over fifty versions of the same person.

Stiles ends up back to back with Derek, probably because Derek has decided he needs to protect Stiles, which Stiles is pretty grateful for. Stiles cracks an Elena upside the head, knocking her into range of Derek’s claws which take out her throat. She falls without shedding a drop of blood – her throat just opens to reveal muscle and esophagus, and then she collapses. A different Elena leaps on Stiles’ back, driving him to the ground, and he feels hot breath on his neck. Can an illusion kill him?

“Oh no, you don’t!” Derek roars, and then the weight is gone from Stiles’ back. Derek grabs his hand, hauling him up, and in the instant that he glances around, Stiles realizes that the number of Elenas has at least doubled. They fill the clearing, blotting out any sign of the rest of the Pack, though he can hear the pop, pop, pop of a gun.

“They’re going to overwhelm us!” Stiles pants.

“Scott?” Derek bellows. “Scott!”

Scott finally reappears, popping up with his hair tousled and a dazed look on his face. He waves.

“Which one is real?” Derek yells at him, smacking away another Elena.

Scott nods, and flings himself at an Elena, tackling her to the ground. As soon as he moves, Derek moves, too, using himself as a battering ram to get through the crowd. Stiles follows close in his wake, whacking away any stray empusas that happen to get too close.

Somehow, they make it through the crush of bodies to where Scott is rolling around on the ground with an Elena, presumable _the_ Elena since he can see through the glamors. Derek draws the stake from his belt. Elena frees herself from Scott, clawing him across the face, but as she stands and coils herself to act, Derek is there, extending the stake, and her momentum is such that she impales herself on it before she can stop herself.

Her eyes go wide. Her mouth pops open just a little, clawed hands scrabbling at the wood slicked with her blood. “You fucker,” she manages to hiss through the blood bubbling out from beneath her lips.

“That’s me,” Derek says and gives the stake a twist.

With a final gasp, the light finally goes out of her eyes, and she goes limp, falling to the ground when Derek releases the stake. The hundred other Elenas wink out of existence, leaving only the Pack scattered across the clearing.

“It was the only way, right?” Scott says, breathing heavily. Stiles stares down at the body, wondering how it could have gone so still so quick.

“It was,” Derek agrees.

“I don’t like it.”

“That’s good.”

The rest of the Pack joins them, most of them limping and looking a little embarrassed that they’d been taken in by the glamors again. “Guys?” Lydia asks, standing beside Sam. “Are we were I think we are?”

Stiles looks around them, the surroundings finally sinking in. There is a massive, old tree stump dominating the forest clearing, leaking its beacon into the air.

“Oh shit,” Stiles says. “The Nemeton Tree. How did we get here?”

Elena’s blood oozes away from her body towards the dry roots of the trunk. To Stiles, the stump feels _hungry_.

A flash of white light splits the clearing, forcing all of them to shut their eyes and turn away, and when the air clears, and Stiles looks back, Dean stands on top of the stump, supporting a mostly unconscious Cas. They both wear old fashioned flapper dresses complete with sequins, legs open to the wind. Dean has a boa wrapped around his neck and a crossbow slung across his back. Cas’s trench coat is the only original scrap of their clothing that Stiles recognizes. Both of them smell like exotic spices, and Dean’s pupils are very wide and very black.

“’Sup guys?” Dean says, grinning. “What’d we miss?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry I don't respond to all the comments. I try to but I just get busy. They really mean a lot to me though!


	18. Epilogue: The Eye of the Storm

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look at you lucky dogs! I got so excited that I went and wrote another whole chapter in a day!

 

Dean has never been more glad to see Sam, even if he is all bruised up and bleeding. “’Sup, guys? What’d we miss? Who beat you up this time, Sammy? Was it another clown?” Man, he is still very high.

Sam’s face is incredulous as he stands, blinking and staring at Dean. “Uh, no. Where the hell have you been?”

“Parallel world. Come here, man. Give me a hug!” Dean drops Cas so he can embrace Sam, and the angel falls to the ground, rolling off the tree stump that they’re standing on. “Ah shit. One sec. Rain check.” He hops down and crouches by Cas, slapping him across the face a couple of times. “Hey, Cas, man, wake up. We made it.”

“Dude, are you high?” Stiles asks.

Dean looks up at him and grins. Stiles has two shadows. “Yeah, very. You want some?”

“Yeah.”

Derek pushes Stiles’ reaching hand down. “No, no. Not right now.”

Cas groans and comes awake, pushing Dean’s prying hands away. “What happened? I feel like I’ve been hit over the head with a lion.” He sits up slowly, looking around. “We look like we’re still in the forest.”

“We are.” Dean helps him stand, both of them swaying just a bit. “But we’re back in our world.”

“Good. That’s good.”

“Oh!” Dean yells suddenly, startling everyone. “I was going to give Sam a hug!” So he spins around, grabs Sam by the shoulders, and drags him into a gigantic hug. Holy shit, Sam has really broad shoulders. And his hair smells like mint – it’s super nice.

“Dean? Are you…petting my hair?” Sam asks.

“It’s really soft.”

“Thanks, I guess. Could you stop?”

“Sorry.” Dean pulls away. “Sorry. It’s just really soft.”

Sam cocks his eyebrow and looks him over, slowly shaking his head. “Maybe we should get you some water.”

“You can pet my hair,” Stiles says and jumps at Dean. Dean catches him, ruffling his hair which is just as soft as Sam’s and spikey. Then Allison, Scott, Lydia, and Isaac join the hug, nearly knocking Dean to the ground. Derek is not really a hugger. Dean knows this and forgives him. Just before the press of bodies, Dean sees a grey-haired, grumpy man holding a very large gun at the ready, glaring at him and Sam before he slips away from the group into the trees. Dean doesn’t think much of it. He’s too high, honestly.

“Wow, werewolves smell good,” Dean says to Scott. Like dogs after a fruity bubble bath and the forest and the clear, moonlit sky.

“I’ve got to try whatever you’re on,” Stiles says. Lydia folds her lips down and bobs her head in agreement.

“Is anyone going to mention the dead body on the ground?” Cas interrupts, looking down at the corpse that Dean somehow has not noticed before now with his head cocked.

“Wow, shit, look at that!” Dean crows.

“That’s the empusa,” Derek says. “We finally brought her down.”

“ _What?_ ” Dean’s voice reaches an impressive pitch and volume. “You mean we _missed it?_ ”

Sam leans forward and wraps his hand around Dean’s mouth. “Dude, you’ve got to keep your voice down. Okay?”

Dean nods a couple of times, resisting the urge to lick Sam’s palm, and Sam lets him. “Sorry,” Dean whispers. “I’m hungry. Does anyone have any food?”

“Let’s get back to the house and meet up with the others,” Derek says. “We can get you some food and, and some water, and then you can tell us where you’ve been, alright?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Dean agrees, nodding rapidly. He gestures towards the forest. “Who was that grumpy dude?”

Allison glances around and then curses, shaking her head. “My dad’s gone.”

“He wants to kill me for some reason,” Sam says. “Probably you, too.”

“Cool,” Dean says, grinning.

“No, no, it’s not!” Sam corrects. Dean just bites his lip and glances around, still grinning a little bit.

By the time the group gets back to the Pack house, Dean is still high. He’s still very high. Goddamn, whatever Parallel World Deaton gave them is _strong_. He keeps hold of Cas’s hand because it feels like there’s electricity buzzing off the angel’s skin.

“Yes, Bobby owes me fifty bucks,” he hears Sam say as Derek walks up the porch steps and opens the door.

“Do you have brownies?” Cas wonders.

“Fuck!” Dean yells excitedly, completely forgetting what Sam told him about being quiet. “Yes! I love you!” He seizes Cas’s face and plants a large kiss on his lips.

Stiles whistles. “Damn! Now I can’t wait to hear about your adventures!”

They head into the house, and Dean makes a beeline for the kitchen, dropping his crossbow by the umbrella stand. A short man with brown and grey hair leans against one of the counters, eating an ice cream sundae directly out of a gallon ice cream tub. Several whipped cream canisters, different types of sauces, and a large bag of M&Ms lie scattered around him.

“Peter! Hey, man, what’s up?” Dean opens his arm and goes in for a hug, and a second later finds his face smashed into the counter, his arm twisted behind his back, and a heavy clawed hand on his neck. “Ow,” he groans.

“Who the fuck are you?” the man growls.

“Peter, man, come on, let me up.”

“How do you know my name?” Peter demands.

Oh, right. Parallel worlds. Damn, this shit is confusing. Aw man, that ice cream smells really, really good.

“Peter, this is Dean,” Derek says with a long suffering sigh. “Let him go.”

The hand disappears from his neck, and Dean straightens up, rubbing at his cheek. He could feel each individual grain of the marble against his cheek. He picks up Peter’s ice cream gallon and the extra spoon and starts eating. The flavors explode in his mouth, and it’s like Dean has died and gone to heaven. And Dean should know since he’s done just that.

“Hey, that’s mine,” Peter says.

Dean hands him spoon back but keeps the tub.

“It’s like herding cats,” Derek says to Allison who snorts. He snaps his fingers a couple of times to reclaim everyone’s wandering attention. “Dean? Your story?”

“Right,” Dean says around his spoon. “So Cas and I were warped to a parallel universe that had this Roaring 20s theme going on. It was super cool.”

“The dresses,” Stiles says, smiling.

“Super cute,” Lydia says, Allison nodding along.

“Right?” Dean adds more M&Ms to the sundae, offering Cas a spoonful. “We met your family, infiltrated a mafia werewolf Pack made entirely out of Alphas, and took them down from the inside. It was awesome. Also there were a lot of drugs and cool steampunk weapons.”

Both Peter and Derek stagger back as he speaks, leaning up against the kitchen island, matching shocked expressions on their faces. Stiles goes up to Derek and threads their fingers together. “My…family?” Derek says.

Dean passes the ice cream over. “Yeah. Uh…Talia, Laura, and you two.”

“My family is…alive?” Derek murmurs.

“No,” Cas corrects, stepping in from the edge of the room. “They’re from a parallel world. They’re not your family.”

“Great tack, Cas,” Sam whispers.

“You were nicer,” Dean says to Peter, squinting at the man. This Peter has angry eyes, and there’s danger in every muscle of his body. There’s something…wrong about his aura – oh yeah, these drugs totally let him see auras, it’s super cool – it’s cracked through with darkness.

“Peter? Nice?” Scott snorts.

“You said an Alpha Pack,” Allison asks as Dean takes the now half-empty ice cream tub back. “Was their leader named Deucalion?”

Dean points his spoon at her. “Yeah! That’s it! Blind dude, right? Man, they were a bunch of dicks.”

“Ain’t that the truth,” Lydia sighs.

Before they can ask Dean more questions, a car rolls up the drive, crunching through the gravel. Scott sniffs then scrunches up his nose. “I smell blood,” he says.

His statement snaps Derek out of the last of his fugue, and he leads the rush towards the front door, practically breaking it down in his haste to get outside. Dean hurries – or tries to hurry – after them, still carrying the ice cream. It’s getting despairingly low. Dean is sad.

Erica and Cora tumble out of a stolen sedan and go around to the trunk. Dean sees a blanket of dark blue over them and the car. The Pack joins them, and there are tear tracks down both girls’ cheeks. Erica’s face is blank. She’s gone far away. Cora opens the trunk.

Boyd’s body stares blankly up at them, blood leaking from his mouth.

* * *

Erica holds Cora’s hand as they walk back towards Elena’s house, moving as if across a field of glass. Erica is trembling. Cora has to open the door, hardly looking at Erica, but Erica can feel the guilt and fear rolling off of the other werewolf.

The door swings out, and they’re met by Crowley carrying a large sack slung over his shoulder. “Uh, hi,” Cora says.

“Baby wolves,” Crowley replies, pushing past them.

“What’s in the bag?” Cora asks. Erica wants to get going and search the house, but she can’t do that without Cora, so she hovers in Cora’s shadow as she watches Crowley.

The demon glances over his shoulder. “None of your business.” And then he disappears.

Erica tugs at Cora’s sleeve. “Can we go now?”

Cora nods, and they start searching the now empty house. It doesn’t take them long to find what they’re looking for. Erica chokes. Boyd lies exactly where she left him only now he’s stopped breathing, and there’s a pool of blood around him.

Erica kneels down beside him, takes his head in her lap, feels tears slip down her cheeks. His face looks scared. Oh God, how could she have left him here to die? Alone? How could she have thought he was an illusion? What has she done?

“ _You_ ,” Erica growls, turning her dark eyes to Cora without letting go of Boyd. “You did this.”

“Me?” Cora points at her chest. “How did I do this?”

“You told me he was an illusion.”

Cora’s face drops as the realization hits her. Her mouth opens and shuts a couple of times. “I – I’m…”

“YOU TOLD ME HE WAS AN ILLUSION!” Erica bellows. “AND NOW HE’S DEAD!”

“I-I’m sorry.”

The tears break out fully, cascading down her cheeks. She can’t breathe, and there’s buzzing all around her. She pats Boyd’s chest a couple of times as if that will do anything. The wound that killed him is nearly invisible against the dark color of his shirt. His eyes are white, bright white, and he stares sightlessly up at the ceiling.

“You killed him!” she wails.

“I – I didn’t know. I’m sorry,” Cora says. There are tears on her cheeks, too, but Erica can’t see them.

Boyd and Erica became werewolves together. They joined Derek’s Pack together. They’ve been through thick and thin and death and too many battles to count. He can’t be…gone. It’s just not possible.

Cora grips her shoulder to try and comfort her, but Erica shakes her off. “Don’t fucking touch me.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Stop saying that.”

“I’m so–” Cora cuts herself off. “Let’s get him out of here. He deserves to lie in the light.”

“Don’t touch him. don’t even talk about him.”

“You don’t want to leave him here though, do you?”

Erica hesitates. No, she doesn’t want that. It’s cold and dark in here. Boyd doesn’t like the dark.

She gets her arms under him and stands, carrying him in her arms like a child though all his limbs hang limp, his body is starting to cool, and his blood soaks her sleeves. “Let’s go,” she says without looking at Erica. “And when this is done, I never want to speak to you again.”

“Okay,” Cora says. “Okay.”

* * *

They have the funeral for Boyd that day, out back of the house in the Hale family plot. Erica hasn’t spoken to anyone except to say that she wants him buried, not cremated. It’s a somber event. Derek kicks Peter out right before it happens while Sam dunks Dean and Cas’s heads into buckets of water to sober them up.

Now, Derek stares at the hastily purchased coffin, wondering how he could have let this happen. If he had been more vigilant, a better Alpha, then this wouldn’t have happened. Derek knows, logically, that this is a faulty line of reasoning, but that doesn’t stop him from spiraling all the way down into a deep guilt pit.

Deaton performs the service, and it is a silent affair. No one seems to know what to do. It’s shock, Derek knows. They will fall apart soon enough. After the coffin is lowered into the ground, the Pack disperses, floating. This should be a happy day. They defeated yet another evil threatening their town, and yet it has all gone sour. Their Pack has a hole in it.

Derek sees Erica step up to Sam. “You know magic, right?” she asks. “Can you bring him back?”

“I – what?” Sam replies.

“Can you bring him back? Resurrect him?”

Sam shakes his head. “Erica, that never ends well.”

“But you’ll try.” She grips his sleeve tightly. “Promise me you’ll try.”

“Okay.” Derek can tell that he’s just staying yes to placate her for the moment, but she seems satisfied because she gives him a nod and walks off with her shoulders slumped. Everyone lets her go.

Lydia replaces her at Sam’s side not even a minute later, shuffling her foot and looking unusually awkward. “Look, Sam, I–”

“No, Lydia, I’m sorry. I was so concerned about protecting you that I forgot you can protect yourself. And either way, I shouldn’t, I don’t know, I shouldn’t be making decisions about your safety for you. And if you still want, we can, I don’t know…”

“Oh my God, stop talking.” Lydia takes Sam’s face in her hands and drags it all the way down to meet hers so she can kiss him. He has quite a way to travel.

Derek turns away, deciding he’s eavesdropped enough. He finds Stiles waiting for him, and Derek walks over, lacing his fingers through Stiles’. “Long day,” he sighs.

Stiles rubs his hand up and down Derek’s arm. “At least it’s over now. Maybe we’ll finally get some peace and quiet around here.”

* * *

In the forest, the breeze stirs the tree branches, slips around the trunks, through the bushes, and over a stream. It carries a leaf with it all the way over to a clearing with a giant tree stump and a shoddily buried body breaking up the green grass. A dense bank of clouds cover this spot and this spot only.

The wind is stronger here, and the breeze joins its brethren, swirling down, down, down to dance around the clearing. A single streak of lightning flashes. A jagged crack appears in the tree trunk. Shadows seep out of it, wispy and torn away by the wind, and then a skeletal hand shoots out and slaps down, blackening the ground around it.

The End…For Now

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now, this is not the end of the story! Not at all! This is just part one! Part two is coming...sometime. I don't know. When I actually have some more stuff planned rather than just a vague overarching plot. Lol, me planning. That's funny. I don't really do much planning beyond real/text screaming about ideas with my bestie. But I'm going to try to do some real planning for part to which is currently called Ancient Goddesses, Angry Fathers, and Overzealous Ghosts: Three Good Reasons Why Derek Hale Needs a Very Strong Drink. Make of that what you will.
> 
> Again thank you for all your support this past, what, year, year and a half? Truly, it means so much to me, and I hope you will keep your eye out for part two!


End file.
